Eden Prime.

A gentle breeze blew through, weaving through meadows of grass and laden with the freshness of a bright morning. Normally, it was far too early in the day for people to be up. At Pishon AFB, things were different. It was nearly time for a change of shift, and some of the morning workers had already reported, talking with their night shift counterparts.

Alexander Falkland looked at this and swore mentally. He'd mistimed his morning run again, and would have to rush the final stretch if he wanted to report in time. Not for the first time, he wondered if using the Base's Gym facilities would be better, but there was something refreshing about running on solid ground, a sense of accomplishment and movement.

He sped himself up, covering the last half kilometre to the nearest entrance in a sharp couple of minutes. The Guard on duty glanced at him and grinned.

"Time's just about up, Falkland," he said.

Falkland was too winded for breath to immediately respond, just making a hurried gesture to open up. Shaking his head in amusement, the guard complied.

Falkland didn't waste time, making a beeline for the Residential Complex. A quick shower and he would be ready to report.

Falkland nearly slid into briefing to find the other elements of his outfit already present. But it had not begun yet, thankfully. One of them, a tall man with brown hair and a gravely distinguished expression stood up.

"Someday you will actually be late, Alex," the man said.

"That day has not come yet, James. And it never will..." Falkland replied sharply. It didn't help that he had to tilt his head to look the other man in the eye. James Lambert was a friend, but he didn't have to be so freaking tall.

"Or maybe you're just short."

Falkland nearly swore at the other man, but restrained himself. Doing so in front of his outfit, the rest of which he was only vaguely acquainted with would be a flagrant breach of protocol, and undermine his authority. For better or worse, he was the one commanding the 29th Recon despite his relative lack of experience. But the Alliance expected only the best.

He nodded briefly at James, taking a seat. As if on cue, a mechanical and feminine voice began speaking as the screen in front of them lit up, showing a three dimensional strategic map.

"Good Morning, members of the 29th Recon. Your assignment for today is to secure the airspace around the town of New Hope."

The map lit up with coordinates and times, outlining the exact parameters for their patrol. It seemed fairly straightforward, if a more circuitous route than was normal. That just meant more hours in the air, which was not something Falkland could object to.

"This is a standard patrol. Your squadron is expected to keep their eyes and ears open for any unidentified craft or suspicious activity and report back to Base with it immediately. Mission parameters and details have also been uploaded to your individual craft."

The voice paused briefly.

"General McNamara is on the line for queries, if any shall arise."

Falkland looked around, and was pleased when there was no question raised. This was as simple as simple could get. Despite his many reservations on this first posting, at least he had been assigned capable wingmen. Regardless, he gave them a few moments. "Nah, Casey...we're good to go," He said, addressing the VI by it's nickname.

"Very well. Godspeed, pilots." With that, the screen winked out and they were left to it.

"Alright gents..let's get this done, shall we?" Falkland said, addressing the group. He could feel a familiar itch running through his hands. Almost unconsciously, he began to hum a favorite tune of his, an old classic.

Revvin' up your engine, listen to her howlin' roar...

***

"Sabre-One, this is Zulu actual. Confirm pre-launch status."

Falkland was in his element. The controls of his F-61 Trident were a familiar companion, and the standard issue Alliance Armor pilots had to wear did not chafe...much. He'd have done without if he could, but the suit was a necessity for surviving both zero-G environments and sharp G-turns in atmospheric engagements.

"This is Sabre-One, pre-launch status is OK," falkland said, this being the cue for the rest of his squadron to check in. As the others checked in, Falkland took his time to muse. At this moment, it was easy to forget that this was a backwater posting. That him and every member of his squadron would likely never see any action beyond training exercises. The thought would have driven him into a rage, had it not been familiar territory. How many times had he discussed this with Lambert and other friends from Arcturus?

We were the best, and we deserved better.

"Lieutenant Falkland?" A voice interrupted his chain of thought, and it took him a moment to register where the voice was coming from.

"Yeah, Zulu...we're ready. Priming VTOL engines, taking off..."

He flicked a few switches, and the HUD inside his Helmet lit up with vital statistics. About his ship, about friendlies and about the assignment. In today's age, flying without considerable artifical assistance was near impossible. He let the bewildering array of information flood his senses, and pressed the sequence for lift-off.

With a sharp jolt, quickly masked by inertial dampening the F-61 rose from the Earth, followed after by five more of it's kind.

"Confirming Waypoint Charlie as clear, moving on to Delta," falkland said.

Half-way through their patrol, and no sign of anything. I don't know if I expected any different...

"Hey, LT. You think we'll ever get transferred?" That was Sabre-three. Falkland had to search his memory for a name, but it clicked. Elijah Haines. A decent enough fellow, if a bit too...enthusiastic.

"What do you mean, three?"

"Just...everyone knows this is the safest place to be. No pirate or raider would dare to come this deep into our turf..."

"Don't be too sure. The batarians have surprised us before," that was Lambert, Sabre-two.

"Sure, but even if someone does manage to get here, we can still respond to any threat in hours." Haines persisted.

"What are you getting at, Three?" Falkland could not keep the edge out of his voice. He understood very well what the freshman was getting at, and this was not a topic he needed to revisit. Once was enough.

"Relax, Three. A baby has to walk before it can run. We may not like it, but the Alliance will deploy us as they think they need us. As we signed up, we put our trust in their judgement. And now is not the time to raise questions," Lambert interjected, sensing that their squadron lead was agigated.

"Sure, but-"

"Guys. Reading a sensory disturbance a few clicks north-east from our position. Do you see it?" that was the first time Sabre-four had spoken. Nicole Mackenzie was not much of a talker.

"Confirmed. Zulu-Actual, this is Sabre-one. We're detecting an anomalous radar signature near our position. Be advised."

There was a short pause. "We are advised, One. Investigate."

Falkland nodded, consulting his HUD once more. The signature seemed to be descending rapidly, indicating an atmopsheric entry. And there was a strange distortion, making it difficult to make out what exactly it was.

"Parameters have changed. We'll be flying right to that signature and figuring out what the hell it is. You should probably have you fingers on the trigger finger, but don't get them itchy just yet. We're not cleared to engage if things go south."

There was no immediate response, except from Lambert. "And what if things do go south?"

Falkland smirked in amusement. "Then our parameters probably go south too. Let's move-"

"One. Large number of smaller signatures are splitting off from the main source, one set is headed right at us and closing fast," Nicole interjected again. There was little time to react.

"Orient yourselves! Prepare for contact!" Falkland barked out his orders, even as the first of the 'signatures' became visible to him.

It was a set of fighters. That much he could confirm, from the size and relative maneuverability that these ships were exhibiting. But the design was not of any make he'd ever seen before. Almost wasp-ish in make, their gray-black plates glinted in the rising sun.

"Unindentified craft, this is a Systems Alliance world. State your business," Falkland said. The anomalies made no response, and did not slacken their speed. They were almost within knife-fight range now.

What the hell are they doing...

"This is your last warning. Failure to comply will resul-"

The ships began firing missiles.

"EVASIVE!" Falkland bellowed, throwing his fighter into a hard left, watching two missles pass by, seemingly close enough to touch. His comms lit up with colorful invective, as pilots desperately tried to avoid the barrage. In the midst of it all, Falkland listened for the words that he dreaded.

"Ahh, I'm hit! Losing power!" Sabre-three had been hit. Haines had been hit.

"Descend, Haines! Get out of their range!" Falkland yelled.

"I'm trying! Might be able to get i-" an explosion cut his words short.

Sons of bitches...

Falkland hastily pulled up comms. "Sabre-One, confirming hostile contact. We're under attack by an unknown force of unknown magnitude. Mobilize all effective wings."

"And what about us, One?" Lambert said, surprisingly calm for the inferno he'd been thrown into.

There was no hesitation in Falkland's mind, and no restraint. This was their moment, and their time to shine.

"Sabre Wing, engage hostiles."

As he swung his ship around in a tight arc, there was only one thought on his mind.

It's on now.