$BChapter $B2 $B– $BBest $BServed $BCold 


$BFlight $BDeck$B, $BTCS $BWellington

$BDeep $BSpace$B, $BOberan $BSystem

$B0631 $Bhours $B(CST)$B, $B2669.162


David awoke the next morning, a premature end to a mostly sleepless night. He slowly sat up from his bunk and, mindful of a few of his still rousing squadmates, quietly opened his locker to retrieve his duty uniform. Being among the few pilots who had taken their first training flight the previous evening, he and his stirring squadmates really had nothing to do till the second sortie of the day. David had been alone with his thoughts for the Majority of the night, though, and he at least needed a change of scenery to try and clear his head before he climbed back into the cockpit again. As he continued to dress in the semi-darkness, David found his thoughts drifting back to the origin of the distress he had felt throughout the night.

The Arrow fighter had performed better than anything David had piloted before in the OCS program. His mind raced back through his experiences behind the stick of a fighter. His first flight had taken place in an ancient Scimitar trainer, his instructor for the exercise barely taking his hands away from the relic's flight controls. David had quickly graduated from the museum piece to an older Sabre variant, one whose turret had been specially modified to accommodate an instructor or performance evaluator. After qualifying in both fighters, most pilots in the OCS were looking forward to their solo flights. David had been dreading it. 

Every one of his previous training flights had been perfect. He had passed every test the flight instructors and combat veterans had thrown at him and scored some of the highest marks ever recorded at his OCS program in the process. In addition, though, every one of his previous flights had been cold and robotic, each flawlessly flown but devoid of any joy whatsoever. David had gone through all the motions, went through every checklist, and double-checked every indicator. He remembered how he had basically worked himself up over the millions of things that could go wrong in the complex war machines in every flight. Each time he had successfully landed after a training exercise, he had always felt sick to his stomach, overjoyed in the fact that he had just not screwed up. 

Finally after many months of anxiety-filled takeoffs, landings, basic maneuvers, and skills assessments, David and the other OCS trainees were ready to remove the training wheels and take a fighter up without an instructor looking over their shoulders. David remembered the customary butterflies breaking free in his stomach as he stepped out on the tarmac and caught a glimpse of the shining silver Ferret parked on the runway. He recalled the nearly immobilizing terror that griped him as he had slowly lowered himself into the cramped cockpit of the tiny fighter. 

He had been amazed, though, as slowly through the pre-flight checklist, the desire to just not fail was beginning to melt away. By the time he was airborne, the feeling was all but replaced with excitement and anticipation of what was to come next. His pulse quickened as he left the atmosphere and his senses came alive, not allowing a single sensation to avoid detection. David laughed at the cliche, but he could swear he could feel himself becoming one with the nimble little patrol fighter. He had to do little more than think of what he wanted to do and the craft responded in kind. For a few minutes, it seemed like the universe existed just for him and the whole galaxy was his playground. 

Any further solo training was cut short as David's accelerated OCS training had come to an end. A few weeks later, he found himself walking down the dimly-lit, shabby hallways of the Wellington, trying to find the mess hall. 

Even as Markham found the dining area, he remained lost in his thoughts. The Arrow he had put through its paces the previous evening had been an absolute dream to fly. The responsive light fighter's handling and maneuverability surpassed even that of the Ferret. If that agile little fighter had responded to David's every thought, then the Arrow actually anticipated his every intention. The sleek fighter had cut through space like a laser knife with every maneuver he had performed. 

This was the origin of David's sleepless night. Even though the lithe Arrow surpassed the Ferret in just about every regard, Markham had just not felt as free and caught up in the moment as he had while taking his first, and only, solo flight. The adrenaline rush was still there, as well as the quickened pulse and heightened senses, but the emotional elation he had felt when dancing the Ferret through the cosmos was missing. At moments, he had actually felt bored, yearning for something he could not quite put his finger on. At first, he had chalked it up to the Ferret being his "first love". One of his first flight instructors, a wise old veteran with a biomechanical arm, had told them that they would never enjoy flying another fighter quite as much as whatever they had completed their first solo flight in. He had likened it to their first love, the one they would supposedly never forget. 

As David sat almost alone in the mess hall, picking through what the cook was trying to pass off as an omelet, he entertained the possibility that it was more than just that. The Arrow training had been David's first flight since reporting to duty as a Space Forces officer, his first with a higher purpose than just the joy of flying or learning the basics of operating a fighter craft. Had the dire straits of the Confederation war effort and the role he was about to play in the saga taken a little of the wonder out of flying for David? 

The calling to action of inexperienced pilots, like David and his OCS comrades, was just one indication of the Confederation's desperation. In addition to the remainder of Thrakhath's fleet, which had come within a cat's whisker of annihilating Earth, Confed intelligence reported that the Kilrathi had commissioned their new clan fleet. Even with the new wave of heavy carriers coming online and the escalated production of new fighter and warship designs throughout ConFleet, the Kilrathi Empire still held the numbers advantage in almost every class of fighter and warship, including an overwhelming upper hand in carriers. 

The questions and concerns continued to churn inside David's head as he left the mess hall. Not quite sure where to go, the young officer began walking around the old carrier he was calling home, searching for answers he was beginning to think would not come easily. Had the events of the past few months stolen a little more of the innocence fledgling pilots enjoyed? 

Granted, growing up during the Kilrathi War had not afforded much in the way of 'childhood innocence'. Every schoolboy and girl knew that there was a race of cat-like warriors somewhere in the galaxy bent on wiping humanity from existence. Despite this, David could remember that during officer candidate school, he and his classmates had enjoyed a setting a little detached from the current war situation. His university studies and even most of his OCS program had dwelled almost purely on the theoretical. Physics, Terran philosophy, aerodynamics, mathematics, and literature had been a large part of his early college curriculum while Kilrathi psychology, engineering, and basic flight training, including basic fighter tactics, had dominated the syllabus at the OCS program. 

While all of the subjects had indeed been directly applicable to David's future involvement in the war, each had been academic exercises at best, their relevant application seemingly years away. With the Battle of Earth sapping the strength of the Confederation war machine and the rushing to service of the OCS students, David could understand how a little of the detached luster he had enjoyed from flying could have faded. 

The roar of a fighter's ion engines powering up snapped David out of his reverie. In his wonderings, David had found his way to the Wellington's Flight Control Center. He stepped through the blast doors to find the Flight Boss and his control officer, busily bringing in fighters from the day's first sortie. David quickly moved out of the Flight Control and down the stairway to the flight deck. Pausing at the bottom, he watched as an Arrow gently glided through the flight deck's atmospheric force field, was caught by the automated tractor beam, and gently touched down on the deck. Looking down the length of the carrier deck, David spied another Arrow fighter parked away from the busy recovery operations now taking place near the rear of the ship. 

David began walking towards the solitary fighter, apparently the victim of a late downcheck by a crew chief. As he approached the nimble little war machine, he continued his musings. He had to admit, no matter what the cause, the escapism of just flying would probably never ensnare him as it had in his first flight in the Ferret. David arrived beside the Arrow, taking in the sleek lines and fierce shark mouth graphic painted on the forward gun mounts. He found himself subconsciously returning the caricature's smile, thinking back to the thrill of pulling the trigger on the energy cannons gleaming under the fighter's nose. The few minutes he had spent in mock combat with the picket corvette had taken him to a new level, in a way, well beyond that of his first Ferret flight. The thought of twisting and turning, trying to keep the corvette in his sights while avoiding its return fire, broadened the already large smile on David's lips.

Could this have been the missing element? Could this be the yearning he had found missing from his pure flying experience? Markham tugged on the ordinance sitting in the missile cart next to the fighter. He had to admit that he yearned to become the pilot he had been training to be, circling the skies with his Kilrathi counterparts in magnificent duels. He soon found himself running his hand along the fighter's fuselage, feeling the slightly pitted armor and running his fingers through the joints in the plating. 

"You really, really need to find a good woman," a female voice goaded from the direction of the recovery operations. Startled, Markham quickly turned to see a sly smile stretched across the face of "Panzer" DiMarco, her helmet slung under her arm and her shoulder length hair a bit of a mess.

David fumbled for a retort.

"You'd better hurry up and climb into your flight suit," she continued quickly, obviously delighted in catching him without anything to say, "Mitchell wants all pilots ready for the second training sortie in twenty minutes."

Recovering quickly, David walked out from beneath the fighter, and began the trek back towards Flight Control and the briefing rooms. Panzer fell in step beside her friend.

"You are right, Angela. I really do need a good woman," David finally responded, turning towards her and resuming the banter, "Too bad there aren't any aboard this tub."

"Took you long enough to come up with that one, didn't it?" she prodded.

"Perfection takes time," he fired back as they passed a few more fighters fresh from the vacuum of space. A handful of other pilots began trailing them, headed towards the briefing rooms, comparing notes about their experiences on their first training exercises. 

"You wouldn't know a good woman if she bit you in the ass, David," Panzer retaliated.

"I know a few good women on the New Reno pleasure planet who would do just that for the right amount of credits," "Champ" Cooper offered, interrupting the conversation. Markham and Panzer turned in disgust to see Champ jogging the last few steps to catch them, the omnipresent 'better-than-thou' smile locked on his face. 

"Speaking of asses," Champ continued as he matched the two friends' pace, "I hear you're getting another chance to kiss up to the squadron CO, Markham."

"Everyone has to fly with someone, Champ. I need to get suited up," David said, trying to gracefully excuse himself before Champ could say anything else. "I'll catch you later, Panzer."

Shooting Angela an apologetic look, David broke from the group and made his way to the locker room to change into his flight suit. He could hear Champ behind him, apparently oblivious to Angela's last comment, recounting one of his less-than-reputable exploits to her. 

David may not have found the root of his problem in his sleepless night or in his morning's reflection, but he may have found a quick fix. Opening his locker, he began to imagine himself locked in mortal combat with a Kilrathi pilot. His pulse quickened as he pictured himself and a furball dancing all over space, twisting and turning until finally the Kilrathi rested in his sights. He smiled at the thought. David knew he wasn't a cold-blooded killer, and he was beginning to realize that Nietzsche's words were not just quotes in a text book. In war, one had to take special care not to become like those they were fighting against. 

"But," David thought to himself as he reached for his flight suit, "maybe a little vengeance now and then is good for the soul."
