23 October, 2582
I woke, lazily slapping at the incessant beeping of my tablet on the pillow next to me. Rolling myself to the edge of the bed took a weak groan and it was a struggle to sit upright with the dull ache that spread through my body. I flipped on the light and was greeted by the bottle of horse pills staring at me from the bedside table. I hated taking pills, but choked one down per the medic’s instructions. He’d been kind despite how quickly he’d been working, reiterating the need to take the pill no less than three times during my examination.
I freed my hair from its loose ponytail, running my hand through the tangles when the thought hit me. Holy shit. I almost died. I sat on the edge of my bed, fingers frozen in the locks of my hair as the images replayed in my mind. The stump of a leg, yellow and red. The hum of the air circulator like a faint Aegis, the only thing that had kept the base from being turned to rubble. Each time I blinked the light flashed into my eyes like a muzzle. I relived the explosion that had almost killed me and the roar of Valkyrie’s engines that filled my ears for so long.
Valkyrie. Were they back? I recounted the end of my night. I’d left the hangar and reported to the med bay once my stomach had stopped heaving. The medics said the civilian would be fine when I asked during my exam. I had been done quickly enough, diagnosed with deep tissue bruises and small stress fractures. Nothing that the miracle of military medicine and a few days of rest wouldn’t fix.
Afterward, I’d returned to the hangar bay, wanting to help in whatever way I could. The main shuttle, Pelican, returned with a full complement of wounded marines, but a swarm of medical staff were already there to greet them before I could be of any assistance. Valkyrie, too, had reappeared briefly to be re-armed, but a ding from my tablet had alerted me I was to return to medical and I didn’t get to see them leave. Apparently the computer had updated my status to include a combat flight, so another screening had been needed.
I blinked, taking in my room. I forced my hands to move and began to pull the final knots from my hair. Steadying my breathing took a conscious effort and I fought to ignore the sour taste in my cheeks. You’re fine. You made it back to the Spitfire.
With my hair taken care of, I remembered that Captain Meyer had pinged me in a message late last night. I grabbed my tablet from the bedside table and scrolled through my inbox only to discover that I had already replied saying I was safe. Checking my new alerts, there was another message from him, this time with a link. I tapped on the highlighted text and was greeted by multiple headlines reporting death and destruction on Gliese-667 Cc. I sent a reply thanking him for the updates before flagging the email as a reminder to read the articles later.
I rose from the bed and began to take ginger steps towards the latrine. My leg ached something horrible and my stomach still felt like it might start its own rebellion. Brushing my teeth didn’t seem like a bad idea either. At least I could try and get whatever this taste was out of my mouth.
“Computer, state the locations of Valkyrie one-one crew members,” I said as I crossed my quarters. It was an idle thought, but post-combat interviews would be very compelling for my story.
A soft chime rang through the room before the female voice responded. “One member is in the medical bay. One member is in their room. One member is in the mess hall.”
Where was the fourth? I lifted my shirt and took a look in the mirror at the purple and green splotches across my torso. Pulling down on the waist of my pants I realized they continued down my leg. I pressed against one of the darker spots on my abdomen and winced. Hopefully military medicine was as good as advertised. The pills were supposed to have them gone by the end of the day, though I somehow doubted they were that effective.
“Computer, list the crew of Valkyrie one-one.” A simple question that would give a simple answer, but perhaps one of them had marked themselves as off-duty and I didn’t have the appropriate access for the computer to give me their location. I continued to count my bruises. Would I get paid extra for these?
The soft chime played again. “Valkyrie one-one is comprised of Lieutenant Junior Grade Jameson, Senior Chief Petty Officer Hardin, and Petty Officer Second Class Strong.”
No, that was wrong. I stared at myself in the mirror. Frizzy brown hair stuck out from my scalp and bags pulled at the undersides of my eyes. I looked like shit.
“Computer, what is the status of Lieutenant Commander Michael Swann?”
Another soft chime. “Lieutenant Commander Swann was killed in action on the twenty-second of October, solar year 2582.”
I fought off the first wretch, but my stomach won on the second. The pill clattered against the metal sink, bouncing around amidst a small amount of bile.
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The blonde viking stood in front of her vessel, arms folded across her chest, her combat flight suit nearly as dirty as the metal plating.
“Hey,” I said as I approached.
“Hey.”
She didn’t turn to look at me and I wasn’t sure why I had expected her to. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk. I’d tracked Matrix down and hadn’t even thought of what to say to her. Sorry? It felt weak.
The computer said she’d been in the hangar for a few hours and by the looks of things I doubted that she’d moved an inch in that time. She certainly hadn’t showered. Probably hadn’t eaten either. I cursed myself for not bringing a pastry or something from the mess hall. I took a deep breath to compose myself, then approached her.
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“Thank you,” I said lightly, “for coming for us.”
“Don’t thank me,” Matrix said, motionless. “I never would’ve gotten us on the ground.”
I furrowed my brow. It wasn’t sorrow in her voice. Anger? Frustration? Matrix sniffed sharply and let out a long breath. “You know, I thought I was better prepared. All yesterday showed me was how big the gap between the two of us was.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Pilots are trained to visualize. To see the flight before you ever take it. I’ve mentally walked through every scenario I’ll probably ever fly, but Christ, it barely made a difference. I froze the moment they started shooting back. If I had been in the left seat, we’d all be dead.”
“You seemed fine when I got on,” I offered.
She scoffed, walking up to the front of the vessel and running her hand along the bottom of the nose, searching for something.
“We were hit...here.” Her finger found a hole it could fit through. “He took it straight to the gut, just above the hip. Filled himself full of foam and kept flying.” She postured herself, both hands against the metal airframe while looking through the glass. “We hadn’t been briefed on surface-to-air missiles in weeks and he still pulled away from them as fast as the computer could activate the defenses. The G’s compressed the foam and he started bleeding all over the place again. Hit himself with more foam and went back to smoke every one of those bastards for trying to turn us into wreckage.”
Tears dripped from her eyes and she hung her head. When she continued, her voice wavered. “All that and I could barely report status off the indicators! He had to walk me through plotting the route back to the Spitfire when we picked you up. We went back and he kept fighting while I could barely work the comms. Another full re-arm, a couple shots of adrenaline for him, and I’m still dead weight.”
She began to pick up speed, spitting out the words as though she were racing against her own emotions. “And then, finally, he gave me no choice but to break out of it. There’s this blinding flash in front of the cockpit and I can’t see anything and the computer is screaming a vitals warning and--” she stopped, unable to finish the thought.
She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. With a deep breath, she tried again. “Sticks yours L-T. Fly or die.”
She didn’t sob, but I saw the hard swallow in her throat as she finished and let her head bump against the side of the cockpit. I had felt helpless on the ground last night, but everyone around me had, to my knowledge, survived. All I wanted to do was give her a comforting word, a hug, something to dull her pain, but I couldn’t make myself move. After a few moments she straightened, giving the metal a light thump with her fist.
“At the end of it all, a few dozen on the ground and four in the sky held out against over one thousand,” she said softly, before turning to look at me over her shoulder. “You know if he was here he’d have some snide comment about your interview questions, right?” The faint outline of a grin appeared around her lips, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to let it fully show.
I couldn’t find anything to say, but I nodded. I just stood there, silent, as Matrix stepped back and eyed the cockpit. I did notice that there were several other holes through the front of the glass that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen Valkyrie depart the hangar.
“How’s Corporal Strong?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Oh, Ricky’ll get a fancy prosthetic paid for by the Fleet and probably cover it with permanent marker,” Matrix answered.
I chuckled. That sounded about right. I was fairly certain the gung-ho gunner would also have a whole new repertoire of jokes regarding the precision with which he could now ‘handle’ himself.
“What happens to you now?” Matrix asked. She turned away from the vessel and fully focused on me. Her eyes looked sunken, dark bags apparent against the puffy edges.
“My boss is having me rotate back next week when the Spitfire is replaced,” I said. “I’m to stay on the ship until then. No trips to the surface.” I felt pathetic saying it. I had been at the least risk out of anyone.
“Probably for the best. Everyone will be busy with repairs and such.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at my boots. They stuck to the floor of the hangar slightly as I shifted my weight. “Listen, I can only write so much in a day before I need a break. Is there anything I can do to help? Carry supplies or something?”
“Nah, the mechanics will handle everything,” Matrix said. Then, with a sigh, “I’ll probably be doing just as much writing as you--after-action reports and whatnot.”
“OK. Well, let me know if you need an editor then, I guess.” I started to leave, clenching my fists and mentally berating myself for not being more supportive.
“Cara,” I turned, hopeful. Matrix bit her lip and seemed to struggle for the words. “He wouldn’t care what anyone thought of him, but I do. Do you think you could, well, maybe don’t focus on him being so grumpy? Or an asshole?”
I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
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Writing the story, as it turned out, was far harder than I imagined. I ran my hand through my hair while the other held down the backspace key of the holo-display connected to my tablet.
It wasn’t that Matrix’s request was difficult. Commander Swann had died a hero, after all. Even if I’d written about him in a scathing way the world would’ve appreciated his sacrifice. He stood to earn some of the highest medals the Fleet could award, not that he would care were he alive to receive them.
No, it was the fact that I could no longer bring myself to disagree with what he’d said that blocked my mind from putting words on paper—or screen, as it were. I’d witnessed the horrible reality of war and been hopelessly caught up in its tide. Yet now, when I sat safe and able to test if the pen could truly be mightier than the sword, the only story I wanted to tell wasn’t one of logical policies or doctrines of restraint.
I wanted to tell a story of heroes. Of those who had been willing to look past all the red tape and rules bureaucrats put on the unpredictable nature of conflict. Of those who had fought to save their comrades.
Matrix had been right. Sometimes you did have to trust that someone, somewhere, had made the right decision to go to war. And as I sat, painstakingly choosing my words, I realized that my story would not be what brought us to peace.
And then I realized I wanted something more.