Lost Vikings by JJ Wolficus (good summer reads txt) 📗

between the two sides was sure to rip the settlements to pieces. Erik, Kyrie,

and Sif had to leave now and hope there would be something to come back to later.

They were packing their things for the evacuation when the cal came. The local

recruiter told Erik that the military had concocted a plan to slow down the zerg, at least for

a while. With luck, it would hold them off until most of the people on the planet had a

chance to escape. But the Dominion needed more combat-ready pilots to help implement

that desperate plan, and it needed them now.

Hearing that spurred Kyrie into action. "Go," she said to Erik as she wiped the tears

streaking her face. "Do whatever good you can. We'll be waiting for you when you get

back."

Erik took just enough time to kiss Kyrie and Sif good-bye before he raced to meet the

recruiter.

Within hours, Erik found himself in the cockpit of a viking, joining a unit of veterans as

they rocketed toward the northern ridge of the Grendel Mountains, the spot where

Command said the zerg had landed their invasion force. Erik hadn't flown a fighter in over

three years, and he'd hoped the muscle memory he'd relied on during his active-duty days

would come back to him right away.

But the viking threw him hard. The controls bucked in his hands like reins on a wild

horse. There was just too much for him to keep track of, and he hadn't had any time to train

with the damn thing before he'd been asked to climb into it.

"Are you sure you don't have a Wraith back there somewhere?" Erik had said when the

armorer told him he'd be operating a viking.

The man laughed at him and shook his head. "The few we had are out helping with the

evacuation. You're flying with Varg. You get a viking." 6

Erik had spent so much time in his Wraith that it was like a natural extension of his

body. By contrast, the viking felt like a violation, as if someone had surgical y attached two

extra legs, three extra arms, and a prehensile tail to him. The problem wasn't that he didn't

know how to operate any individual piece; it was that he couldn't figure out how to

coordinate them in a way that didn't feel as if he was going to trip and fal —or crash.

Of course, everyone else on the team had put in dozens, if not hundreds, of hours in

these craft. These pilots worked together like a well-oiled machine, able not only to wield

their vikings like fencers with sabers but also to anticipate one another's movements. It

was as if their actions had been choreographed and practiced endlessly, the team a

seamless whole but for the jagged bit of broken bone that Erik represented.

Erik had never been in a viking before—a real one, not a simulator—and he'd never met

anyone in the crew, much lessworked with them. He'd heard of Varg, who was a legend on

Braxis, but the rest of the team remained a mystery. If there was a weak link in this chain,

he knew who it was. He could only pray he wouldn't snap and destroy them all.

"We're practical y there, kid," Varg said, interrupting Erik's reverie. "Time for regrets ended after takeoff."

"I wanted to defend my family," Erik said, explaining now to Varg why he'd volunteered

for this mission. "I didn't realize it would be in one of these."

"You got to choose whether or not to fight," Varg said. "That's more than the rest of us got. You just didn't get to choose your weapon."

"I know how he feels, though." The voice belonged to Olaf Kraftig, a massive bear of a

man flying off Erik's starboard side. "These beasts are neither fish nor fowl. An armored

walker that can convert into an aircraft? It doesn't seem natural, does it?"

Varg laughed at the comment. "What do you have to say to that, Scorch?" 7

"Scorch" was the nickname for Captain Drake, a redheaded firebrand of a woman Erik

had spotted in the hangar. They hadn't spoken, but she'd snapped a quick salute at him as

he climbed into his viking, and he'd reciprocated, more out of reflex than intent.

"It's a machine that can do it al ," she said. Her voice was so raspy that Erik had to

wonder how she'd damaged it. No one sounded that raw and throaty natural y, right? "Air

superiority and ground-support capabilities. What's not to love?"

"Might ask Johan," Baleog Grym said in a bitter tone. "He was flying young Erik's rig up until last week."

The fifth and final member of the wing, Baleog hadn't had much to say to Erik the entire

trip. He seemed to resent Erik's presence, to think the wing would be better off without

him. Erik wasn't sure he could disagree.

"What happened to Johan?" Erik said.

"Put it this way," Baleog said, grim as ever. "If he was still around, Varg here wouldn't have asked for volunteers to take his place."

Olaf threw back his head and laughed. "Too true!"

"He died in a training accident," Scorch said. "He lost control of his craft while

transforming from an assault walker to an air-superiority fighter. Smashed right into the

ground."

"Happens more often than you'd think," Varg said. "There's nothing easy about flying a

viking. Only the best of the best can pul it off."

Baleog grunted at that. "The best—or the desperate."

"Look," Scorch said, "there aren't a whole lot of spare combat-tested terran pilots on

Braxis these days. Varg wouldn't have asked for Erik if we hadn't been stuck." 8

Erik felt his heart sink. "How desperate are you?"

"I wouldn't have tapped you if I didn't think you could hack it," said Varg. "Having a bad pilot in a wing's worse than being shy a ship."

"That's the truth," Baleog said.

"I went over your military records before you got the call. Your old commander said you

were the best damn pilot he's ever seen. Racked up the most kil s in your unit."

"That true?" Scorch said.

"True enough," Erik said with no trace of pride.

"Wel , there haven't been enough terrans here on Braxis, period," Baleog said, a

grudging note of respect in his voice. "Not