Chapter 3: Back in the Saddle
11.1.2186
Alliance pilots formed an intimate connection with their craft, Chertyl recalled from an old report a colleague had sent to her for review many years ago, in preparation for a briefing with pilots of the Hierarchy embarking on their inaugural sorties of war games with the human fleet. They are trained to a high degree of autonomy, she remembered telling them, but individually their craft and crews fill very specialized roles within their strike formations. From our experiences at the Relay, heavy fighters of the following configuration will prove your gravest concern:
She remembered displaying to them a model of an Alliance fighter with a bulbous protrusion along the dorsal spine of a forked fuselage, each tine terminating in twin cannon; a third barrel of unmistakably high bore protruding from a traversable mount on a ventral pod. This one won't come hunting you directly. It'll just make sure you don't have a carrier to return to if you let his friends distract you into a melee, and you let him get there.
A living specimen of this craft currently sat suspended on the mobile arm of the Ruin Wake's shuttle gantry, ready to be lowered into the launch chute and jettisoned on command. Larger than any variant of the ubiquitous F-61 Trident, this fighter was of more vintage stock, her comparative lack of maneuverability offset by the bruising power of both her gun-missile battery and an electronic warfare suite that could probably pop all the graxen kernals in the galley if she were powered up right here. On the edge of a catwalk above this beast sat her pilot, a sleepy-looking Victor leaning his arms against the safety banister, his legs swinging nonchalantly nearly twenty feet above the canopy.
After a short ride up an access lift, Commander Korvaris finished reminiscing as she ambled beside her human companion, wrapping a small blanket around his shoulders and stirring him from his trance. Or was it slumber? He drew in a sharp breath and peered up at her through groggy eyes.
"Ah… hey there. That feels nice, thank you. But I'm on alert for another-"
He drew a profound yawn as he glanced at his timepiece.
"-two hours and eleven minutes. Sorry you caught me slipping off again… it's hard, you know?"
Chertyl knew that his fatigue was the fast getting to him, a circumstance she couldn't hold against the starved man. It brought her worry, seeing her human friend more exhausted by the day, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt each time she stopped by the wardroom to eat her fill, knowing that Vic and his companions were famished, now on their fourth day without sustenance. Thankfully, Novis Raad'li, the tech officer who'd initially made the crude comment regarding growling stomachs, brought to the humans' rackmates his personal stash of skynettle tea, made from a turian plant adapted for cultivation on Thessia, whose active chemical composition exhibited no dextrorotation- or chirality of any kind for that matter. Though it was of scant nutritional value to humans, Director Marthel had encouraged their hosts to provide it to them regardless.
Chertyl clasped a hand soothingly between his clavicle and shoulder, gently massaging him. She took relish in the muffled, pleasured groans she elicited from him as he relaxed and surrendered completely to her touch.
"You're awesome by the way. In case no one has reminded you lately. If you're trying to keep me awake though, this is a pretty good way to send me to dreamland."
Chertyl stopped her motions, an almost needful sigh leaving the human. A mischievous tone entered her voice.
"Well, I can fetch a bucket of ice water from the galley and pour it all over you if you'd prefer. Even better since your suit is missing."
As soon as she said the words she regretted them, even as she spoke in jest. It was enough to endure the chill of the hanger on an alert wearing nothing but his service skivvies while his flight suit was being laundered. He looked slightly comical in a turian flight harness haphazardly strapped over his undergarments, an array of electronics and cockpit interface jacks hanging about him like some sort of cyberpunk ghille suit. But even jokingly the thought of bringing him physical torment in any form was unbearable. The human chuckled in good humor at her remark, but she still knelt beside him to pull him into a hug, and smiled when he patted her arm, draped affectionately across his chest.
"You know I'm just joking with you, Vic. Here, I did actually bring you something to fight the snooze."
The turian released him to retrieve a rotund metal flask, twisting firmly at the neck to reveal a steaming opening. Handing the vessel to Victor, she watched as the human's nose perked at the exotic scent of the liquid inside. Even among her kind, aficionados of skynettle were the exception rather than the rule. Taking an experimental sip, she watched his impassive expression contort thoughtfully, before bringing the flask back up to drink more.
"Do you like the taste?" she asked, hoping he might find it agreeable.
"Really don't think I do. Too spicy… like ginger, if you can relate to that at all. But it will definitely keep me awake, so that's a win in my book. Thanks again."
The human glanced at her and raised the flask as if giving a toast, before grimacing and taking another sip. Chertyl watched him pensively for a minute before taking a seat beside him, their legs dangling in the cool breeze of the hangar. Looking past her toes, she took a moment to marvel at the battle-weary A-52 Orca hanging two stories beneath them. The ablative skin was streaked with scorch marks in places where directed-energy weapons had glanced off, striking at too oblique an angle to be absorbed by the shielding. To her delight, she saw that despite the significant cosmetic erosion, a cartoon dragon's mouth painted around the flame plating of a forward cannon's muzzle remained pristine, if slightly (and appropriately) sooty.
"Did you paint that cute beastie there, Vic?"
The pilot looked quizzically at his craft until he saw what she was referencing, drawing a chuckle.
"Nah, that was Nicky Yamaduta's work. We made a bet during the last Crimson Pennon exercise a couple years ago, and that was the price. He definitely gave me a run for my money though, especially given that I had over a decade of stick time on him. I never really got to know him too well, nobody did really. He was a pretty quiet guy that just seemed happier to absorb himself in his work and hear out others rather than talk about himself. I guess maybe that's part of why I liked him so much. But yeah, that chubby dragon was his idea. Still puts a smile on my face every time I light up an Oculus. Here's to hoping I'll get the chance to do so many more times before this is all over."
His expression turned dour as he took another sip, before lightening again as he turned to face her.
"But enough about that, I wanted to ask you something."
"What's that, Vic?"
"Your friend Lorem in Flight Ops took me down to the armory earlier to get kitted up and go over contingencies, flight plans… you know. Interesting guy, for sure- I had no idea folding paper was a pastime for turians too- but he took a call while he was briefing me and told whoever was on the line that he was busy working with Korvaris' keepling. My translator didn't quite get that last word, but that's what it sounded like."
Chertyl rolled her eyes. "Kipling. That must be what he said. It's a play on words that wouldn't translate anyway, but the meaning of the word refers to one's pet. You hear it most used in reference to young and untamed ones, at that."
She was surprised that Victor's initial reaction gravitated towards the age commentary before anything else.
"Do I really seem so young?" he asked skeptically.
She had to nod her head emphatically at that.
"It's remarkable actually. You look barely older than when they put you in cryo, and we're essentially the same age, by your own records."
The turian stifled a giggle, and placed a hand upon Victor's head, stroking his smooth pate. "But I think this might have more to do with it- a male without a crest just looks… I dunno… juvenile?"
The human turned to face her with a comically exaggerated frown, the look of mock devastation in his soulful eyes plucking at her heartstrings.
"Oh don't look at me that way, Vic. You are a handsome, strapping specimen of a spaceman, and don't you believe anyone who would tell you otherwise."
She dropped her arm to bring it around his collarbone, pulling him in to deliver a conspiratorial whisper.
"And with that beast of yours down there, I'd wager you could give a fine femme of any species the best ride of her life."
Chertyl watched his face redden deeply at her purposefully-ambiguous compliment. The poor man looked postively shell-shocked for a moment, but she couldn't help herself. The matronly affection she held for this human had blossomed over the past few days as they had spent more time beside one another. For his part, Victor seemed to reciprocate these feelings, and she was finding increasingly that he was opening up to her emotionally in their late-night talks from bunk to bunk. She didn't want to come on too strongly, but damn it, he just looked so cute when she could fluster him like this, and to his credit, he recovered quickly.
"I-If you say so, Chertyl. But if you catch me gluing feathers to my head out of insecurity, it's your fault."
Chertyl's mandibles twitched mirthfully at the absurd but endearing mental image that gave her. She was about to recommend painting his face in the turian manner to complete the look, when their banter was interrupted by the sound of a klaxon echoing throughout the hangar. A call for all hands to assume duty stations came through the intercom system, and she could make out the voice of the Flight Chief through Victor's communications receiver. Springing into action, she quickly helped the human mount his helmet sensorium and accompanied him to the gantry ladder, where she urged him to be careful out there before hurriedly making her way to the operations deck.
In combat situations, she fulfilled the role of aide to the signals intelligence staff, who provided the valuable battlefield service of intercepting enemy transmissions and working to extract tactical data in real time. On the opposite end of the room, flight operations and fire control were busy coordinating, and she could see the situation in the holo map Lorem was poring over even as a colleague was explaining it to her. In the past few minutes a Destroyer hiding in the nebula had tried pouncing Havinclaw flying point, before Ruin Wake and Illuminator each put a salvo through the Reaper's tail, killing propulsion and power to her lethal primary. Not to be vanquished so easily, the Reaper had begun shedding a swarm of drones which were now gunning for the frigate, and she could hear Commodore Severen emphatically order the cruiser to close the gap and blanket her with point-defense fire.
Accepting a headset from the hand of a subordinate to begin communicating with her counterparts on the Havinclaw, the last details she could resolve from the tactical display across the room were the holographic arrows symbolizing the three Alliance fighters peeling off the cruiser's vector to meet the oncoming horde in enfilade. The Lieutenant Commander did her best to swallow the fear for Vic and her friends aboard Havinclaw, as she established a secure data link with the wildly maneuvering frigate.
"Have a hard link, sir. Standing by to slave countermeasures to your sensors."
Through the fore viewport, she caught a series of luminous flashes as the frigate's close-in weapons system detonated oncoming munitions at a range that couldn't have left much room for comfort. The battle-scarred hulk of Illuminator soon eclipsed her view as she sped ahead to bring her own batteries to bear on the enemy. The viewport soon became obstructed completely as the blast shields were lowered, and her attention returned to the task at hand as a shaky voice on the line acknowledged her transmission, indicating they were ready to receive.
"Sending it. Spirits keep you, Havinclaw."