“The ship your father was stationed on when he turned on his wingmen.” Commander Colemen took a sip, his eyes narrowing as they watched Coda over the rim of the glass. “When people speak of your father, they often talk about how many pilots died by his hand. What they usually leave out is how many people aboard the Benjamin Franklin perished as well.”
“Sir.” It was all Coda could do to get the word out of his throat. “What does this have to do with me and Moscow?”
Commander Coleman placed his glass on the table. “I did a little digging, Coda. And it appears that Lieutenant Kyrlov’s mother was aboard the Benjamin Franklin during the attack.”
“And she…” It was somewhere between a question and a statement.
Commander Coleman nodded. “She did. It's all right there if you want to read it.” The commander nodded to his tablet that rested on the table between them.
Coda followed the gesture, seeing a woman with a pale complexion and dark hair, before looking away. Even at a glance, he could tell she was Moscow’s mother. He could see the pride burning in her eyes, the same pride that pushed Moscow to his limits and never allowed him to accept defeat. The same pride that Coda had thought was at the heart of their issues.
“I… I had no idea, sir. He never said anything about it. About her.” Coda fought back the roiling mix of emotions raging inside him. Everything seemed so complicated all of a sudden. So confusing. “I just thought we were rivals.”
Commander Coleman grunted. Like Coda, he seemed to be lacking the words and instead swirled his drink. “Then you see I have a serious issue.”
“Yes, sir.” Coda swallowed a lump in his throat. “Are you… are you sending me home, sir?”
Commander Coleman took another sip then winced from the bite. “No. But if I’d known the severity of the situation, I never would have taken both of you. Unfortunately, the urgency of our predicament didn't allow me enough time to properly vet the background of every candidate, so I focused on other attributes. But here you are, and I can't send either of you packing without a legitimate excuse. That would only divide the squadron even further. Nor do I want to send either of you home, to be honest. Despite your issues, you're both developing into a pair of fine young pilots.”
“Thank you, sir,” Coda said, breathing a little easier.
“But we need to find a way to fix this.”
“Of course, sir.”
“So here's what we’re going to do. We’re going to solve this the old-fashioned way—with a competition.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me,” Commander Coleman said. “I've heard him grumble about you ever since your squadron beat his back at the academy. So, we’re going to give him his wish. You two are going to go toe to toe in the simulator.”
“No offense, sir,” Coda said skeptically, “but do you really think that'll work? That it'll fix our issues?”
Commander Coleman barked a laugh. “Of course not. But I hope it can be a start. And of course, if things don't get better, your one-on-one performance might give me grounds to get rid of one of you.” He added the last bit as if it was an afterthought, but Coda knew better. There was likely more truth to that statement than he was letting on.
“Sir, if I may? Why tell me this?”
“A man deserves to know why someone hates him, Coda. More than that… well, I'll let you figure that out for yourself.”
Walking back to his bunk, Coda replayed the conversation in his mind. If the commander’s goal was to help him understand the true cause of his issues with Moscow, then he had done that, but Coda felt like he was missing something. The commander wanted him to understand something. Something important. But try as he might, Coda couldn’t figure out what it was.
18
Simulator, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda expected his competition with Moscow to come the next day, but when they entered the Simulation Room, Commander Coleman made no mention of it and instead walked them through their normal routine. The showdown didn’t come during their late-morning session after breakfast, the following day, or the day after, either, and by the end of the week, Coda had begun to wonder if he’d just imagined his entire conversation with Commander Coleman.
Knowing he was working on the commander’s timeline, he allowed himself to fall into his new routine: gym in the morning, simulator, evaluations, breakfast, more simulator and evaluations, class, lunch, more class, afternoon workouts, dinner, debriefing with Commander Coleman and the entire squadron, all followed by his private after-hours practice with Uno.
By the end of the second week in the simulator, their fourth overall in the twenty-six-week program, Coda, Noodle, and Squawks were above the failure line. Despite being below the cutoff, Uno had made marked progress, and Coda believed he would make it above the line in time. That morning, Commander Coleman addressed the pilots as he always did, but his tone held something new.
“Congratulations on completing your first two weeks with the simulator. Every single one of you has put in a considerable amount of work, and you’re all the better for it. If we look at the updated standings”—Commander Coleman punched something into his terminal, and the standings appeared on the Simulation Room’s wall display—“you’ll see that more than half of the pilots in the squadron are above the failure line. That’s outstanding. That also means we’re ready to move on to our second phase with the simulator: Combat Phase.”
A ripple of excitement washed over the gathered pilots. Combat phase. The reason they were all here: not to study Baranyk biology or learn to rebuild a Shaw Drive with spit and gumption, but to feel the rush of flying on their edge of their seats, blasting down Baranyk fighters. As exciting as basic flight was, nothing got a young pilot hard faster than weapons training.
“Over the
