“What will you do after graduation?” Dad asked me.

He knew the answer. I told him multiple times, but he kept asking in the evening after dinner. At least once a week or maybe twice or thrice.

My hunger grew with every minute. I wondered when my mother would return. “A tactician.” Dad either asked, because of his growing dementia or he expected me to become a pilot.

“Is that what you want to do?” He flipped through the channels. There wasn’t much running through the TV except news or documentaries. Very rarely did I see any entertainment. A few local dance shows or maybe dramas. Dad zapped until he found a dance audition stream from Rome. A ballroom dance audition and their participants seemed to perform waltz. No, viennese waltz. The dancers moved faster. I wondered how they felt while dancing. Did they feel happy? Exhausted? Or overwhelmed? Or afraid that their partners possibly dropped them while twisting? I was dropped. But my partner was a beginner who improved with each movement when we practiced. I missed him. We danced for three weeks, until he left. And I didn’t know where he went. And we had no means of communication, except that after years apart, that one earring he gifted me would act as an identification.

“What do you mean?” I picked the remote and zapped to another channel. It hurt being remembered of how much I missed spending time with my dance partner.

But dad didn’t even know of my partner in crime.

He grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “Let’s have dinner. I think I heard your mother.” Then he opened the front door for her. She still wore her military instructor uniform. I could barely see her behind my dad. He was burly while she was short and intimidating. She was plump, had black bob haircut and a strong smile.

I hopped up and hugged my mother softly before I swiftly took my seat at the table. My growling stomach dispersed, but I was more than ready to eat all of the skewers.

After an evening prayer by my dad, I was allowed to feast.

And after the initial silence, mother broke it. “Are you prepared for your tactician training, neng?”

I swallowed the sweet savory and garlic-y pork, then answered. “Yes, mom. I always read the recent combat reports, at least those allowed for students.”

“Good, good. You will need it. There has been a lot of changes recently.”

Mother was the only source of confidential information I could get, until the end of this week. She openly admitted to me that she shouldn’t talk to me about it, but she also added that training both her children as pilots since age four wasn’t allowed either. The official training started with the admission to military school. Anyone younger than sixteen put into harsh training and strain could possibly harm their mental and physical growth. But I wasn’t sure if it was just false, as David and I seemed to have grown just fine. Asides the accident three years ago.

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“What changed?” I asked.

Mother finished her plate. It must have been a soldier’s habit of eating at lightning speed. “A unique Monocero appeared and our chief tactician said, that thing emits white particles. But they don’t do anything. Just some light. Maybe a side product from their power source. I don’t know the exact technicalities, but you should ask him yourself.”

“Did it attack?”

“No, it watched and defended its friends whenever they retreated.”

So after every two hours of combat, they always ran and the Ringcero watched. Defending its allies wasn’t mentioned in any report. “Why wasn’t that in the report? That it defended its friends.”

Mother unbuttoned her jacket. She always did it. First food, then everything else. “The commander wanted to withhold it from the official student reports, because it wasn’t any important for anyone to learn. That thing just watched and helped them escape. Nothing else.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. What tactical advantage do they get aside from a safe escape?” Retreats held very high importance in prolonged battles. Especially when supplies ran low. Or they’d lose in numbers. But I had a feeling that a unique Monocero like the golden one had to offer more than just retreat safety. So what changed within those four battles since its arrival.

“I think it judges us.”

My dad added. “Are you staying as an instructor?”

“They want me to. Which was fine. Afterall we are three instructors for the next newcomer pilots.”

That many applied? And they needed that many new soldiers? The combat became stale. Neither side lost too many. Yet it seemed like numbers had been growing on both sides, which could end up in a very bad battle.

Mother’s communicator rang. She picked up and answered in a bitter tone. “What could be so important?”

Then the next thing I saw were expressions she never had before. From becoming pale to horrified to furious. Calm and collected was what she expressed and now I fear for what she heard. Was the base being attacked? Did we lose an entire squad in battle? What was it?

Dad asked one of many questions that swirled in my mind. “Is something wrong?”

She put on her jacket and stormed out. Dad followed in close pursuit and the last thing I heard was. “What do you mean David is in coma?”

That went deep into my skin. A family of soldiers who lost their active combatant meant either one of two things. One of my parents would either be redrafted or I would be asked to pilot again.

And I doubt that my father decided to serve the army again after he lost his brother in a horrible decision.

I fumbled with my earring. I refused to become a pilot again. Not after I hurt my co-pilot and almost destroyed everyone around me. My arms and shoulders trembled until the tremble took over my entire body. I hated it. I didn’t want to pilot again. Not in a Terran at least. Not with someone who would hold me back.