Phantom Fighters
The Zocalo was busy, but he felt alone.
He was pissed. Right now, only emotionally. By the end of tonight (or what passed for night on Babylon 5), he'd be pissed physically as well. Come the morrow, he'd be back to doing drills for potential conflict with the centauri – a conflict that was looking like more and more of a certainty. And while he would be happy to go against a flight jockey at any time of the year, he would have preferred it if he knew exactly what that ship he saw in hyperspace was. That big, black ship that haunted his dreams, haunted his waking hours, and-
"Hit me."
-haunted his drinking time as well. He was only grateful that Jerry didn't say anything along the lines of "I think you've had enough."
"Warren, are you-"
"I said hit me."
He'd almost said it, but he wouldn't let him. He was Zeta Leader damn it. He was meant to give orders, whether it be to his fellow wingmen or civvies who didn't think that he could stomach a Comet Tail. 'Comet Tail,' he reflected. He flew in space, and that was funny...for some reason...maybe his fingers would tell him and-
"Hit me."
The words weren't his own. Instead they belonged to the flight jockey beside him.
"Jovian Sunspot," the man said. He looked at Warren. "Tough day?"
Warren gave an approximation of a shrug.
"Well, aren't they all. The war with the narn is over, but space is just as whacked as ever."
"Whacked." Warren let out a snort as he watched the Jovian Sunspot arrive before the flyboy. A nice, big, Jovian Sunspot that whispered "order one for yourself." "Pal, you've got no idea what 'whacked' is."
"Try me."
Warren straightened up as best he could. He squinted through the blazing light of Red Sector, peering through the brightness to see a man who was...old, he supposed. That was the best word for it. Not so old as to be decrepit, but...old. The look of a guy who'd seen and done a lot. The type of man who'd done everything, so talking casually to a member of Babylon 5's Starfury squadrons was a walk in the park.
"Fine," Warren said. "I'll talk."
The man took a sip of the Sunspot. "It isn't an interrogation."
"I saw something," Warren said. "In hyperspace. Big, black...like a spider." He took a sip of the Comet Tail and fought the urge to retch. "Been with me all year, like, I can't get it out of my head." He took yet another sip. "And big...wig...Sher...Sher..."
"Captain Sheridan?"
"The captain takes me off the case." He slid the Comet Tail over the counter and buried his face in his hands. "Says I have to be 'focused.' Says that I shouldn't go chasing down phantom fighters, even on my own time." He rose a hand to ask Jerry for another round. He thought better of it, and rose a finger to God, Sheridan, and everyone else on this station for that matter. "Shadow fighter...no one cares..." He looked at the man again. Grey hair, grey eyes, still holding his Sunspot. "Arsehole."
"Who?" the man asked.
Warren said nothing. He didn't know. He kept his face down even as his drinking buddy began to talk.
"Y'know," he began, "I know what it's like to deal with phantom fighters."
"Fascinating," Warren murmured.
"Yep. Kilrathi War. Bit before your time."
Warren looked at him – the Kilrathi War? That big one, that occurred on...on...he couldn't remember? It was one of those conflicts that would be eclipsed by the Earth-Minbari War, the same way that Earth's victory in the Dilgar Invasion rang hollow when humanity realized that they were in the shadow of far greater alien races. But still, he tried to sit up straight. He'd give another flyboy the time of day. Or, what passed for day here.
"There was a ship," the man said. "EAS Tiger's Claw. Destroyed by cloaked kilrathi starfighters on the way to K'tithrak Mang. Only survived because I was on patrol."
Warren nodded. The kilrathi had been beaten by Earth Alliance in the end, but not without great cost. And not without Earth ever coming close to beating them in the field of cloaking technology. For all their talk about honour, the fur balls had been quite happy to fight dirty.
"So, long story short, I was assigned to the Concordia," the man said. "Admiral Tolwyn saw to that, and he was quite happy to leave me there."
Tolwyn? Warren couldn't remember the name. Instead he asked, "so what about the starfighters? Did the pilots believe you?"
"Nup. Didn't believe me when I told them, didn't believe me when I was attacked by them, only believed me when I came back with recorded evidence, and believe me, that wasn't easy." The man snorted. "Course things changed a bit after that. Mostly for the better." He took a sip of the Sunspot. "Sometimes not..." He sighed. "But, anyway, people not believing you about phantom fighters? I get that."
The man got up and scanned his credit chip. "I'll see you around."
"See...wait," Warren asked, and the man looked at him. "You believe me, right? The starfighters? In hyperspace?"
"I believe that you believe," the man said. "I guess I might even believe you as well."
"Then-"
"But let it go," he said. "Your captain's given you an order, and given how things are in the galaxy right now, I can back him."
"What do you know about giving orders?"
"I commanded EAS Midway," the man said. "Trust me, I know." He turned to leave, paused, then smirked. "Name's Christopher Blair, by the way. I'll see you around. Hopefully still alive."
Christopher Blair, Warren reflected. Blair. Blair, as in, the hero of Earth Alliance? The man who single-handedly defeated the Kilrathi Empire? Blair, as in, one of the greatest pilots in history, had been talking to him? Letting him make a fool of himself? He let out a silent curse. Then-
"Fuck!"
A loud one. Jerry looked over at him. And in that moment of perfect clarity, Lieutenant Warren Keffer, squadron leader of Zeta Wing, said the only thing he could.
"Hit me."