Wings of Honor by Craig Andrews (black authors fiction .TXT) 📗

thought. I’ve got two weeks of this. The thought filled him with dread, but failure wasn’t an option. He had to get through it so he could get to the good stuff.

When the overview ended, Coda immediately moved onto the next module, and for the next two hours, he listened and took notes on an introduction to the miniature Shaw Drive equipped on the X-23. It was dry stuff, which the presenter made worse with a slow, monotone voice that catered to the lowest common denominator.

Coda’s eyes burned, and at one point, he nearly fell asleep. He would have let himself if the video didn’t stop periodically to give him a short quiz, making sure he was paying attention. And the longer the video played, the more difficult the quizzes got. Coda began missing questions, and the module responded by forcing him to rewatch entire sections until he passed the mid-module exam.

He felt triumphant when he finally got to the end of the first module, but the feeling quickly turned to despair when he saw the one-hundred-question test that awaited him. Despair then turned to irritation when he failed the test and was forced to retake the module from the beginning.

After a brief meltdown, he forced himself to take the module more slowly, often replaying certain parts so he could take more detailed notes and ensure he understood the content. When he came to the test again, he passed it without issue, though not with the score he would have liked. Still, passing was passing, and as the old saying went, “Cs get degrees.”

That afternoon, Coda and his group of friends met in the mess hall. The room was like every other mess he'd eaten in. Stainless-steel tables and chairs lined the room and were all bolted securely to the floor. Refreshment stations serving recycled water and black coffee framed the food buffet, where cooks lethargically spooned slop onto their plates.

“What is this?” Squawks asked, staring at his tray. “Looks like you puked on my plate and called it a meal.”

He wasn't far from the truth. The food, if one could call it that, was a brown paste that resembled something between meatloaf and Jell-O.

“Why can't I have some of that?” Squawks pointed at a tray of hamburgers piled on a warming tray.

“You're with the new squadron, right?” the cook asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then this is what you get.” The cook spooned a second helping onto Squawks’s plate and gave him a sarcastic look.

“This is some horseshit,” Squawks said.

“I don't think we’re going to get prime rib and scallops,” Coda said as the cook scooped a spoonful onto his tray. “Come on. Let's find a place to sit.”

They found a table near the refreshment station and sat, poking their food as if it were a strange creature that had washed up on the beach. Noodle was the first to brave a bite. The rest of the group watched as he chewed, swallowed, and made a face Coda couldn't read.

“Well?” Squawks asked.

Noodle just shrugged. “Tastes like someone mixed some proteins, fats, vitamins, and water in a blender and called it good. It's not going to win any cooking awards, but I've had worse.”

Hearing it wasn't as bad as it looked, Coda took a bite of his own and was pleasantly surprised by its lack of taste. Like Noodle, he shrugged and helped himself to more.

“If we’re saving the fleet, we should at least eat like it,” Squawks said, stirring his food with a disgusted expression.

“We are eating like it,” Uno said.

“What do you mean?” Coda asked.

“Think about it,” Uno said. “Flying a starfighter takes a serious toll on the body. Whatever’s in here, it's more than just fat and protein.”

“What are you saying? You think there’s steroids or growth hormones in here or something?” Coda’s appetite was disappearing by the second.

“Of course there is,” Uno said. “They said there would be.”

“Who did?” Squawks asked.

“The commander.”

“He didn't say anything like that to me.”

“Me, neither,” Coda said.

“It was in the paperwork.” Uno looked around the table and was met with a series of blank expressions. “I'm the only one who read the release, aren't I?”

The group nodded.

“Wow,” Uno said. “You guys signed up for something without reading what would be required?”

“They said it was classified,” Noodle said.

“The mission was classified,” Uno said. “Not what would be required to fulfill that mission.”

“What did it say?” Coda asked.

“You pretty much figured it out already. They have us on a special diet chocked-full of your standard fat and proteins but with an added helping of experimental growth hormones meant to strengthen our bodies for the stresses of space flight.”

Coda slid his tray away. The word “experimental” turned his stomach, and he was left with a mental image of himself growing a third arm.

Noodle came to a very different conclusion. “I'm going to get jacked, aren't I?”

“Sorry, Noodle,” Squawks said. “He said ‘experimental,’ not ‘miracle.’

“Shut it, Squawks.”

“It’s okay, little guy. One of these days, you’ll hit puberty.”

“And one of these days, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Squawks said. “Just remember, I’ve got bigger muscles.”

“You’ve got a bigger mouth too,” Noodle said.

Laughter erupted around the table. Squawks took the jibe in stride, laughing the loudest of all.

“Well played,” Squawks said, giving Noodle a fist bump. “There’s hope for you yet.”

The banter was familiar to Coda, even welcomed. Viking Squadron had bickered like family too, and Coda believed it was a true sign of camaraderie. When your wingmen made fun of you, that meant they liked you. If they ignored you… well, that was an altogether different story.

“Whether Noodle will ever fill out remains to be seen,” Uno said. “But either way, I’m sure the commander will have us in the gym soon. So eat up. It might be the difference between life and death out there.”

“If I don't die of boredom first.” Squawks pushed his tray away. “Seriously. FAM Phase can suck it. Who knew being a pilot would be so boring?”

Noodle began mimicking the instructor’s slow