Written in the Stars
"022314, docking clamps withdrawn, self-power
initiated. Weapons check okay. Proceeding with mission. Intercept with enemy squadron in 5
minutes."
I always loved to watch the stars. I'm not sure exactly when I first fell in love with them, but
some of my earliest memories were of me walking with my father, hand in hand,
through the fields outside of our house, watching the night sky unfold before
us. I must have picked it up from
him-even though his government position demanded that he spend much of his time
in the city, my father bought a house out in the rural farm areas so the light
wouldn't spoil our starwatches. He
taught me every single constellation in the sky: The Serpent, the Skybeast,
even the more obscure ones like the Doorknob and the Sapphire. Once he bought me an ancient book from Earth
just to show me that the stars weren't the same in all parts of the
galaxy. Even after my mother died, and
the demands on his time became even greater, he always found time to stargaze
with me on the weekends.
"Copy, Tango leader.
Moving into position. 010138,
drop back .3 kilometers and hold position over my wing. Keep a watch on the portside; my sensors
have been spotty in that area recently.
Outer wing, keep clear of the planet's gravity well. Base, intercept with enemy squadron in 2
minutes."
I guess I was lucky that I was free to pursue my love with
the night. As I grew older I would
spend hours laying in the grass, just contemplating a life among those points
of light. I never was very social, and
so the stars became my friends. They
would listen, and sometimes, I thought they could even respond. It was my desire, and my destiny, to spend
the rest of my life in space, amongst the stars.
"Copy, Base, activating signal jammers now. 010138, we've got a second squadron coming
up at oh-three-five. Keep a watch on
their position-we don't want to be caught unprepared. Copy, Tango leader. Locking
onto wing fighter now. 027181, pull in
and stay tight-we're going to be passing pretty close to that cruiser. Base, intercept in thirty seconds."
When I was old enough, I joined the Confederate
military. Father never thought that was
a good idea, but he knew that more than anything, I wanted to live with the
stars. My performance in both school
and the placement tests were good enough to get me accepted not only into the
Academy, but also into the prestigious Advanced Pilot program. The times of training were difficult, but
always rewarding. The military
discipline came easily enough, although not perfectly-I suppose when your
father works with military officials as his job, that sort of thing comes naturally. I did pretty well in class, too; while I was
not at the head of the class, I did well enough to gain recognition throughout
the school. But it was in flight
training that I made my mark. The AP
program adheres to the old-fashioned school of training-no VR simulations until
the pilots have logged at least 50 hours of flight time in a real craft. This is where I excelled; to me, nothing
could be more beautiful than to fly with the stars, experiencing life as they
felt it, soaring through the galaxy with no direction other than their
own. The instructors chastised me
regularly for bending the rules of the training exercises, but I didn't care,
and I suspect that they saw that my lax care for rules came not as delinquency,
but true love for my art.
"Diverting energy to weapons systems. Reactor output at maximum. Base, intercept in twenty seconds."
And that was what it was, art. The stars sang to me while I guided my ship through their depths,
their voices ringing clear and strong through the deep thrum of the antique
reactor and the pinging of the aging hull plates. When we began combat training, I was unequalled in a dogfight-it
was as though I could feel, on some subconscious level, the tides and flow of
the energies which make up our universe.
They say that some humans are able to hear the thoughts of others, and
sometimes even bend those others to their will. Maybe I've picked up some of that, whatever it is, or maybe
there's something entirely different for pilots. The universe is a strange and wonderful place.
"027181, pull in tighter-we can't afford to lose any
coverage in that area. Copy, Tango
leader. 010138 and I will fly spread
cover. Base, fifteen seconds."
I graduated with honors and was placed in the Wraith pilot
program, an elite position which less than two percent of all pilots qualify
for in their entire career. The Wraiths
are excellent craft, significantly more advanced than the old Gryphon trainers
that we flew in school, and they fly the most prestigious, most dangerous missions
for the Confederate star fleet. It was
in the cockpit of my Wraith, designation 022314-Tango, where I was at
home. My Wraith was not a number-it was
part of me, and every time I flew I became that craft, becoming what I had
dreamed of as a child. Completely in
control of my destiny. I rarely spent
time aboard ship when I had a choice, and the times I did were mostly spent in
my quarters, gazing at the universe around me.
"Ten seconds.
Good luck team."
My combat experience with the Wraiths was pretty limited—at
least inside the Confederacy's borders Wraiths were mostly used as a show of
force to defuse a situation before it exploded into actual conflict. In times of peace like this, we rarely ever
had to deal with anything more than pirates preying on civilian transports or
the occasional hotshot salvager who decided it was easier to create salvage
than find it. But that changed with the
rebellion. The Sons of Korhal were the
largest threat to the Confederacy since its inception. Their soldiers are our equals, and they seem
to grow stronger even as we wipe out their bases. I always felt twinge of regret when I read the battle reports; to
me, fighting over the galaxy spoils its beauty, and make us forget why we ever
came out here in the first place. I
flew and fought because I was told to, and because I loved being among the
stars, not because of delusions of grandeur.
"Engaging enemy."
Flying in combat is incredibly dangerous, but nowhere have I
ever become closer to the stars than from that situation. Like the flow of molecules and atoms
colliding and fusing in a young star, so does a dogfight become chaos, with no
orders given and none followed. It is
the song of the stars that keep me alive in this sort of situation, their voice
guiding my hand along a track impossible to calculate or comprehend. This sort of exotic opera, and my
understanding of its melody, has kept me unharmed and the original coat of
paint on my Wraith.
"Missiles launched.
Deploying flares and chaff.
Transferring power to fire control, engaging with cannons. Watch it 010138, missile at 7! 027181, cover Tango leader. I'm pulling evasive. Base, report, Charlie leader destroyed. Copy-001101, pick up my wing! I've got tails!"
Every good Wraith pilot I've met feels the same way I
do. We look different on the surface,
but deep down in the core, we're the same person. We just express it differently.
That's why I've always been afraid of the day I would fight pilots of my
own caliber-we all think the same and fight the same. My fate would rely on luck, and whether I was ready to join the
stars for all eternity.
"I'm cutting over to the cruiser. 027181, stay high and keep out of that
atmosphere! Hold it, pick off those
tails, they've got a lock on me! Base,
report, 022314 reporting with probable loss of function imminent!"
The stick jiggles in my hand, the whine of the engine cuts
in and out, and the flash of my cannons mark my course through this chaos as I
follow those words that have guided me through my whole life. Even the flash of my port wing vaporizing
and the ear-shattering squeal of my reactor going into overload comes as no
surprise.
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A little boy walked through the field, intently watching the
night sky as it unfolds over him.
"Look, daddy!" he shouted, tugging on his father's hand and
pointing at a streak of light as it flies by overhead. "A shooting star! When I grow up, I'm going to be just like
that!" The father reached down and
fondly patted his son's head, reading the night sky as if seeing into the
future.
"I'm sure you will, son. I'm sure you will."
END
A/N: Well, this is
my first fan fiction. Tell me how it
went, but no flames please. Give me
honest advice on how to improve my writing.
Some concepts I have borrowed from other stories, most notably the Wing
Commander movie and I, Jedi by M. Stackpole.
