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

pilot, was the first to arrive. He looked surprised when he saw Coda, but he masked it quickly and took his seat across the aisle from Coda.

“Coming with us, huh?” Coda asked. “I was starting to think I was the only one.”

“Not today,” Uno said. “I’m surprised to see you, though. Thought you’d be going to the front.”

Word of Coda’s demise apparently hadn’t spread throughout the rest of the academy yet. That was one of the benefits of shipping out prior to graduation, he supposed.

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to fly with a legend,” Coda said.

Uno grinned. “Me, neither.”

“Any idea where we’re headed?”

Uno shook his head. “You?”

“Nope. I’m in the dark too.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie, Coda. I feel better knowing you’re going too.”

Coda nodded. He’d spoken with Uno on only a few occasions, but the Raptor pilot had always struck him as someone he could get along with. He was also damn good at what he did, and if Uno was the caliber of pilot Commander Coleman was after, then he was truly building something special.

More pilots trickled in after Uno, fifteen in all, including David “Squawks” Anderson and Benjamin “Noodle” Campbell. After joining Coda and Uno, the other two pilots chatted amicably, doing their best to hide their anxious anticipation.

Coda kept one eye on the air lock, hoping to see Buster, but as the minutes ticked by and the transport began to fill up, his hopes dimmed. When Commander Coleman arrived, he did have another student in tow, but it wasn’t the one Coda was hoping for.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Coda mumbled.

Moscow floated behind the commander, sneering as he surveyed the shuttle’s occupants. He’d been cleaned up since his fight with Coda but still sported a split lip and swollen eyes that were beginning to purple. A pair of butterfly bandages crossed his right cheek, and another held together a cut above his left eye. If Moscow was embarrassed by his injuries, he didn’t show it. Instead, his sneer turned into something more sinister when he spotted Coda.

“What is he doing here?” Uno asked as Moscow found a seat and strapped in.

“Bringing some talent to this sorry-ass group,” Moscow said, apparently having heard the remark. “Isn’t that right, O’Neil?”

Coda ignored him and took some sadistic pleasure in hearing how Moscow’s injuries made his words come out with a slight lisp. Commander Coleman floated down the aisle toward the front of the ship. Once there, he anchored his feet in a pair of handholds and peered over the gathered pilots.

“Welcome aboard,” Commander Coleman said. “The Sol Fleet doesn't often show its appreciation for its service members—there are ceremonies and awards for that sort of thing. But as I look over you now, I want you to know that I appreciate you taking this risk and joining me. I know you have a lot of questions, and I promise you, answers are coming. But in the spirit of military efficiency, we’ll wait until the rest of the squad has arrived.”

Commander Coleman gave them a small grin, drawing a few nervous laughs.

“But when you look around this shuttle and see the quality of pilots we've assembled, I hope you agree we’re beginning something special. I can't tell you what that is yet, but I can tell you where we’ll go to begin our journey.”

Coda perked up. Only a few hours had passed since his discussion with Commander Coleman, but already he felt like a man drowning in a sea of questions, grasping for answers.

“We fly to Jumpgate Sol Four, where we’ll hyperjump to Proxima Centauri B, and rendezvous with the SAS Jamestown and the rest of your squadron. There, you'll get your answers and begin your training. So buckle up and get comfortable. We’ll be at the jumpgate in four hours.”

Coda could imagine worse things than being strapped into the gel seat of a transport vessel for four hours but not many. Unlike the battle cruisers and capital ships that made up the bulk of the Sol Fleet, transport vessels weren't equipped with much in the way of entertainment or facilities. They ate terrible food, shat in something closer to a bag than a toilet, and were forced to entertain themselves. That mostly meant conversation and simple games, and Coda, leery of Moscow, had to force himself to partake in any of it.

He knew it was an important bonding time for the squadron: friendships would be made, alliances solidified, and old rivalries made worse by adding new players. In typical Moscow fashion, he was already making new friends and turning them against Coda. He could feel their eyes, hear their laughter and caught more than one glance in his direction.

Coda tried to ignore it and focus on the group he was engaged with, but it was easier said than done.

“So something I'm trying to figure out,” Squawks said, speaking fast and loose in something that resembled a verbal swagger, “is how you all earn your call signs? I mean some make sense, right? Squawks—I talk a lot. Squawk, squawk, squawk. Makes sense. Uno—first, I thought it was cause you only had one nut or something, but then you shot me down with one shot. Boom. Dead. Uno. Makes sense. But then you got Noodle.” Squawks gestured toward the thin pilot. “I have a few guesses, but tell us, what’s your story. Someone just razzing you or what?”

Noodle’s pale faced colored. There were two kinds of call signs: those that were earned and those that were given. The ones that were earned were generally forms of respect like Uno, but the ones that were given were an altogether different story.

Some could be innocuous, little more than simple jokes. Buster had given a new pilot in Viking Squadron the call sign “Crash” due to his early propensity to, well, crash. But others could be downright insulting. A guy in the class ahead of Coda had been called “Sluf,” which had been given to him because someone had overheard one of the female pilots calling him a “short little ugly fucker.” The call sign Sluf was born, and it had stuck.

If Noodle’s embarrassed reaction was any indication, his