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

worse than losing was losing to Andrei fucking Krylov, asshat extraordinaire. Except when his eyes found the vid screen above, it too was black.

Confused, Coda looked around to find the rest of his squad throwing their helmets aside, screaming and high-fiving those close to them. Before he could register what had happened, Buster was pulling him into a hug, slapping his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

“We did it!” Buster yelled into his ear. “Oh my god, we did it.”

“Did what?” Coda said. “What happened?”

Buster pushed Coda away and gave him a pointed look. “What happened? We won!”

“We what?”

“I said we won!” Buster grabbed Coda by the back of his head and drew Coda’s forehead to his. “Your nearly disastrous strategy actually paid off.”

Coda finally allowed himself to smile. Maybe Moscow hadn’t killed him after all.

“You really didn’t know?” Buster asked. “What did you think happened?”

Coda didn’t respond. He’d grown obsessed with Moscow and had lost sight of the larger objective. He’d completely missed it when Viking Fifteen or Sixteen—he didn’t even know who had fired the winning shot—had ended the simulation and claimed victory. Then in ripping off his helmet in frustration, he’d missed the victory message that would have been displayed across his HUD.

His superiors wouldn’t miss that act of arrogance and attitude unbecoming of a drone pilot. But he refused to worry about that now. He’d just beaten Andrei Krylov and Shadow Squadron, and his Vikings were the Ace Squadron of their graduating class. Everything Coda had dreamt about for the last several years was about to become a reality.

2

Viking Squadron Ready Room, Terran Fleet Academy

Sol System, Earth, High Orbit

Chilled champagne waited for the victors in the Viking Squadron ready room. The pilots rushed forward, pushing and shoving their way to the bottles, ready to shake, uncork, and spray their fellow victors as though they had just won the World Series.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Coda screamed over the din. “Hold up a second!”

His pilots did as ordered, though they reminded him of a group of puppies, unable to sit still without trembling with excitement. They still wore their slate-gray flight suits fashioned after the ones worn by twenty-first-century fighter pilots.

Coda surveyed the room, milking the moment and testing their patience. “I just want to say a few words,” he said. “When I took command of this squadron a year ago, I didn’t know what we had. But I do now. We have the best damn pilots in the academy!”

Cheers erupted.

“And so does every other pilot, teacher, civilian, janitor, and commander in this place! You are the best. The best of the best. And it’s been a pleasure serving as your squadron leader.”

This was met with an even more enthusiastic chorus of cheers, and some of the pilots took things further, shouting their own gratitude.

“The pleasure is ours, Coda!” Buster shouted.

“You’re the best!” Hound added. Coda’s wingman had somehow found time to unzip his flight suit, exposing a black tank top underneath.

“Moscow ain’t got nothing on you!” Hot Rod shouted.

The last one made Coda laugh, even if it was a break from decorum. He should have reprimanded the pilot, but their time was coming to an end, and he didn’t want to mar an otherwise joyous moment. Besides, the ready room was a place of confidence for the pilots, a place where everyone was equal and could speak his or her mind.

“No, he doesn’t,” Coda said. “And Shadow Squadron ain’t got nothing on you, either.” He turned to Buster, who was holding an unopened bottle of champagne. “Let me see that.”

His friend handed him the bottle, and Coda quickly uncorked it. He held it high so all could see. “To Viking Squadron!”

Coda took a long pull from the bottle and handed it back to Buster, who echoed the sentiment with a drink of his own then handed it to the next pilot. Around the room the bottle went, until it found its way to Hot Rod, who finished it off. Another cheer went up, then the true celebration got underway.

Sometime later, Coda found himself sitting with Buster at the back of the ready room, watching as the pilots of Viking Squadron joked and told stories, enjoying their final moments as a group. It was one of the rare moments Coda had seen his fellow pilots completely without inhibition.

They’d gone through their formal victory celebration, where Captain Hughes himself presented their victory pins, before returning to the ready room. With that behind them, they were left completely without supervision. No senior officers. No commanders. They could finally be themselves, and they weren’t letting such an opportunity go to waste.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Buster said.

“Me, neither,” Coda said. “You going to miss it?”

Buster shrugged. “Probably.”

“I will,” Coda said. “We really did do something special, you know?”

“Of course I do. We beat Moscow.” Buster shoved Coda playfully. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to miss, though. I won’t miss having to juggle studies with simulations. Life’s about to get a lot simpler.”

“You think?”

Buster leaned back in his seat, throwing a foot on the back of the chair in front of him. “Definitely.”

Coda wasn’t sure he agreed. Their time at the academy was coming to an end, but that only meant they would be joining the real war effort. Flying with real drone squadrons. Fighting in real battles. Stationed on battle cruisers and capital ships, not a floating school orbiting the Earth. But he didn’t want to argue with his friend and spoil his mood. Not today.

“When do you think we’ll get our orders?” Coda asked.

“You’re the Squadron Leader. I was hoping you knew.”

“They haven’t told me anything yet.”

“It’s got to be soon, though, right? I mean, what else are we going to do? Sit around and jerk off all day?”

Coda laughed. Like all young men, if Buster wasn’t playing with his junk, he was talking about it. The familiarity of the male banter put Coda at ease, though. “You’re right. It’ll probably be