Chapter 20

  Saturday was spent in the simulators, reviewing formations and reenacting famous battles from the War. The situations were repetitive, and the engagements unimaginative. The only interesting parts were when the Theocracy forces severely outnumbered us, and we got to mix it up in dogfights. The first time we did it, the instructor reminded us that modern fighters didn’t have guns and that we needed to retreat to allow the next volley to launch. The second time, he was going to have the guns disabled when one of the older pilots named Shaw spoke up.

  He pointed out that his personal fighter did, in fact, have guns. A quick survey found that five of the fourteen of us did, in fact, have guns on board. The percentage was surprisingly high with only seven of us using personal fighters. To my surprise, the instructor relented, saying that militias were always an eclectic collection of crafts and that each squadron needed to have its own tactics. If we wanted to practice such an outdated tactic, that was up to us.

  For the last few training sessions, we were divided into flights. Each militia squadron was divided into five flights of six, and our class was supposed to make up half of a squadron. If the militia were ever activated to form a squadron, we would be combined with another class. My flight consisted of myself, Hobart, Sinclair, and two others from the class. After the last class of the day, we returned to the barracks, watching the second and third movies in the series before calling it a night.

  Sunday morning saw us all out on the flight line—those of us with personal fighters going over our fighters with the ground crew, and the others going out to the available militia-supplied fighters. We spent the morning playing basic scenarios. Each flight would do scenarios one-on, one-off, in rotation.

  “Alright, Delta, you're up. You're escorting a transport,” the instructor’s voice came over the Comm.D.

  The exercise went to route. Romeo Flight was playing Theocracy, given shorter training missile ranges to fulfill their role. We used the standard League doctrine of volleying in three groups of two, rotating out until all the missiles were expended. The tactic was fine if both sides had lower acceleration and shorter range, but it’s not like the Theocracy didn’t know why they lost the last war.

  The fight was over quickly, and we switched sides. This time, however, we were set to play pirates. Sinclair, our flight lead, spoke up on the channel chat: “For those about to die, we salute you.”

  One of the others chimed in melodramatically, “To do and die.”

  We all laughed.

  “Hey, Sinclair, want to have a little fun with this one?” I asked, having an evil plan.

  “Sure, what have you got, Miles?”

  I sent him an attack plan while saying, “It would never work in real life, but it would definitely shake things up.” Sinclair sent it to the rest of the group, and the responses were all along the lines of, “Eh, we are supposed to die anyway.”

  The fighters got into a three-dimensional diamond formation: two fighters on each flank, two fighters vertical, one in the lead, and myself taking up the rear. The instructor called for the start, and our formation launched out of the asteroid cluster we were using as part of the exercise. The defenders started firing missiles as we bore in on them. We didn’t break or counter-fire; the group’s interior effort was put into launching decoys. The first volley arrived, and one fighter was blotted out from the plot. He immediately peeled out of the fight. We lost two more before we got to them.

  I slashed my way through the wheeling fighters, waiting for lock-ons before calling on the open channel, “Guns, guns, guns!” and rolling to attack another target. I got three before the last two reformed further out and took me out with a full launch from both craft—total overkill, but I couldn’t blame them. I would have done the same in their position. I was the last attacker by that point. Still, we had inflicted more losses than any other attacking force that day.

  “End ex, end ex, end ex,” the instructor called as soon as the system registered my death. I could tell he was pissed. “What the fuck was that, Delta? That is not what you were supposed to do!”

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  Before Sinclair could respond, the sound of a channel override beeped on the class’s Comm.D. channel.

  “Class 3780, Class 3780, this is Bulwark. Stand by for priority traffic!”

  Bulwark was the name of the massive military space station that guarded the one jump gate into the Paledes system and was also the Paledes Fleet headquarters.

  The voice changed to one speaking with more authority than the first.

  “Class 3780, our records show you have a militia pilot named Benjamin Miles with you on exercises. Is that correct?”

  The instructor was using an official Palede's fighter with all the built-in identifiers that allowed him to know who was connected to the net.

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s here.”

  There was a small touch of relief in the officer’s voice. It was not like they were worried, but more like they had finished an important job.

  “Excellent. New priority tasking: Pilot Miles is to make the best possible speed to Bulwark, where he is to proceed to dock and make his way to Section D35 and report to the Diplomatic Corps there. How copy?”

  I flipped over and plotted a course to Bulwark. The flight time would be 50 minutes, according to the computer. I waited for the instructor to officially release me, then firewalled the throttle. The Betty was designed as an interceptor, and her engines were still better than those used on modern multi-role fighters for the ability to actually get up and go.

  I shot away from the formation at a top speed twenty percent higher than the other fighters in the group could have achieved. I pushed the gravitational dampeners to their maximum. For the first few seconds, I felt like a large mammal sat on my chest before everything evened out.

  The flight to Bulwark was uneventful.

  “NCC110FM requesting permission to dock with orders to report to Section D35.”

  “Roger that, NCC110FM, hangar 34 is open.”

  I acknowledged traffic control and headed to the hangar. The landing was quick and easy, and when the flight line marshal gave me the thumbs-up, I popped the hatch. A crew ran out to fuel the Betty but paused, not recognizing the space frame. An older crew chief from across the room spotted the issue and double-timed over.

  “It’s a Mark II. The fuel port’s just in front of the port-side wing. Hop to it!”

  He turned to me and nodded. “Don’t worry, sir, there were still a few of these in fleet when I started. I will make sure the boys treat her right!”

  I nodded my thanks. “Thank you, Chief. It’s my first time on Bulwark. Do I need to check in somewhere?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. Your Comm.D would have handled that as soon as your ship was locked into place. Just pull it up, and you should have directions.”

  Sure enough, there was a map with a line leading from my location further into the station on my Comm.D. With another thanks to the chief, I took off in search of Section D35.

  The guidance system led me to a tram stop. I waited for about a minute, then boarded the tram when it pulled up. The tram stopped in front of Section Thirty a short time later, and a few hallways and turns later, I found a hatch labeled D35.

  I stepped through to see a well-appointed lobby with plants, comfortable-looking couches, and carpets. The rest of the station had been utilitarian and efficient, so the change caught me off guard for a few moments when I noticed a young lady sitting behind a large, dense, dark wood desk.

  I walked forward and stood at attention. Not seeing any signs of rank, I didn’t salute. “Ma’am, Benjamin Miles, Militia Pilot, reporting as ordered,” I said. The lady gave me a polite, professional smile—clearly showing she had experience dealing with military protocol. “At ease, Mr. Miles. Thank you for your prompt arrival. I will let the ambassador know you’re here.” My confusion must have shown on my face. “They didn’t tell you what this was about?” the receptionist asked. “No, Ma’am, I was just told to report here.”

  “An envoy from a League world arrived unexpectedly and requested to meet specifically with you. Ambassador Stevenson is currently in there with him, but when we found you were serving with the Militia, it was considered easier to order you here to handle the situation more quickly than trying to jump through all the hoops,” I nodded in understanding and followed her down the hall to another hatch guarded by a pair of marines. They nodded at our approach and opened the door.

  We walked into a casual meeting area with two well-appointed couches facing each other, with a coffee table between them. A woman I recognized from some news feeds—who I thought must be Ambassador Stevenson—sat to my left, and a man in a business suit sat on the other side. Both parties stood as I entered; introductions were made, then the ambassador gestured to the envoy. “Mr. Miles, on behalf of the Emperor, the fourth prince of Prussia Friedrich, and on behalf of a grateful nation, it is my honor and privilege to present you with the Star of Prussia and the commensurate title of Baron in the Far Reach. Congratulations, my lord.” The ambassador and I both shared wide-eyed looks.