When she was little, there was a pilot that was the subject of countless myths and whispered legends. A man in a plane with three scratches, who couldn't be matched by anyone. All Erusea fought this man, and all that met him died; her Grandpa fought this man, and even he fell, alive but wings forever broken. Superhuman machines fought this man, made in her Grandpa's image - the man ripped them apart too. And after all that, the man with three scratches vanished into the sky, forever unknown.

The sky held legends like that man. The sky made an addict of her Grandpa, drew him into its embrace time after deadly time, and she always wondered: why? So when her childhood ended, she took to the sky too.

Up there, it turned out it was like a dance. Planes climbed and rolled and looped and dived, with a peculiar weight despite the deafening engines. A weight that at first was a nuisance, but soon became an art to her; even before she became a combat pilot, the rhythm of flight mesmerized her. And when she did have her battles, she understood just why Grandpa hungered for combat. Not the bloodshed, but the back and forth, the lunge and riposte of missiles, the remise of a missed shot, the shot of proud excitement when a feint worked and brought her in just the right line to send her missiles home.

It turned out the sky held endless wonders. And so that was why Alma stayed in it.

Today in the morning blue she was alone, the clouds her only partners. She soared and rose and lifted up up up -

Alma let off the throttle, let herself glide to her peak. Above her was the clouds and ground - blue, so shining and glowing blue - and she began the pitch down, the descent back into reality. Even at this height, at these gaining speeds, gravity cradled her so gently...

No, she thought, not me. My plane, she reminded herself. My plane is diving. My plane is descending. Now the loop was complete, and Alma leveled off. The simulator crews were right: it was easy to forget you didn't have wings in these new birds. Even without the tactile sensors, it was uncanny.

The radio crackled, heavy with encryption: «So, what do you think, Chief?»

"She's good," Chief Test Pilot Alma A. Shilage answered. Absent in voice, but in her heart she was entranced by the machine (so like her Grandpa, if she ever stopped to notice). "Smooth, too. Even at military output she's beyond a 57's envelope." Now Alma rolled, put yaw in to make a barrel curling high over the runway; she felt the familiar sinking into her seat and laughed. "Tower, permission to continue trials?"

«Granted, ma'am,» her ground chief Leo answered.

Alma's faint smirk turned into a grin, and Neucom's Chief Test Pilot began to climb again. Into the air, into the dance -

Her sky was a realm of life and motion. And in the end, nothing could take her from it.


When she was little, there was a pilot that was the subject of countless myths and whispered legends. A man in a plane with three scratches, who couldn't be matched by anyone. All Erusea fought this man, and all that met him died; her Grandpa fought this man, and even he fell, alive but wings forever broken. Superhuman machines fought this man, made in her Grandpa's image - the man ripped them apart too. And after all that, the man with three scratches vanished into the sky, forever unknown.

In the evening air above her, a roar echoed down. Three of her craft were cutting lines in the twilight. Delphinus II they were called, dolphins for the sky.

Alma watched her team line up for the starburst, and smiled when she saw contrails from every one of them. Her kids made so much progress in a year... but then, that's what happened when you had stars to shoot for.

"Not bad, huh?"

She smiled, hearing Leo's soothing voice. He was a bear of a man from Leasath, hairy and rotund in that way that hid weightlifters' strength. "Not bad at all. Looks like the kids have gotten used to going all out, you see those trails?"

He chuckled. "They've been practicing so hard, it had to pay off."

"That and the ground crew babying our planes. Thanks, by the way."

"No worries."

"So, how'd the metrics go?"

"Looking good. You were calm the whole time despite the high G trials, no pressure or O2 spikes. Weight definitely made maneuvers a little wider, about 2% average… but given just how much your bio improved, it's an okay trade. No change in reflex metrics, as expected, no side effects or hardware warnings noted. It's up to the combat trials on Thursday, but most likely we can approve this model."

"Yes!" Alma hissed, and she did a little fist-pump. "These are like night and day to the 101s, they deserve to go into production…" A slight buzz; she looked to her pocket. "Ah, might have to continue this later..."

Leo saluted, and she returned it with a gentle smile before answering the phone -

"Hey, 'nel. Yeah, I'm okay; you?

Just the usual too. Is Miss Cossette okay?

I can take a couple days off, if you want - see me? Are you sure?

...Right, sorry. Is Miss Cossette sure?

I'll talk with Relations, but it's Her Majesty's country. Any day will work. Okay, I'll see you then.

Love you too."

In the evening air above Alma, a roar echoed down: her kids, bringing their planes to their limits. But it brought her no joy.