Nestor the Chronicled

Thanks to a combination of an iPod Touch and Capsuleer, I’ve spent quite a bit of time reading through things such as Flash Fiction hosted by Ecliptic Rift. This time, though, I’ma contribute. I apologize in advance for the length; writing short isn’t something I do very well.

Friday Flash Fiction 3: Fighter-Bombers

New Eden has seen new craft take the field this week, with the deployment of fighter-bombers designed to threaten and destroy capital ships as part of Dominion 1.1. These craft have non-capsuleer pilots controlling them, much like the existing fighters. Your story should reference these fighter-bombers in some way. Maybe a FB pilot prepares for an engagement in which she’ll pilot such a craft, or pirates look to steal the technology and resell it, or maybe station crew observe a battle involving these ships. Or maybe you’ll even examine the origins behind their names.

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“Welcome. You are here because of a combination of exceptional talent and finely honed skill. Should you be selected as part of my crew, you will be flying with the best of the best. Be forewarned that we will engage in combat. Sometimes we will dictate the engagement; others, our first warning will be the sound of shields failing. In return, you will be adequately compensated, and should you choose to quit, you may do so at any port of call.”

The capsuleer gave her little speech in a bored tone. It was written on a datapad in front of her, as were a battery of suggested questions, but she had no need of them. The speech was familiar enough. The eager recruit on the other side of the table, though, hung on every word. “Let’s get to it,” finished the pale capsuleer. “You are Marcus Tillmans, droneman. Second in your class, graduated straight to a Vexor-class patrol cruiser… six months later, lateral transfer to a Dominix-class battleship, and after a year and a half made it to chief combat droneman, where you ran Ogres for the Navy. Finished your tour, went into the capsuleer navy doing the same thing. Now here you are.”

“Yessir,” nodded Marcus, a bit flustered at having his history splayed out in so concise a fashion. “My scores on—”

The capsuleer waved him off. “Don’t care about tests; if you weren’t the best the Navy’d have kicked you out. You’ve been runnin’ drones, and you’re good at it. Damn good; I’d hire you for that sight unseen. I’m talkin’ to ya because I want to put you in one.”

One what? said the look on Marcus’ face, before comprehension dawned. “Fighter duty?” he said with reverence, before quickly recovering. “I’d be honored, sir. I’ve been qualified on all—”

“I know,” said the capsuleer gently. “’S why you’re here. I’ve just got one question for you, a simple one.” Leaning forward, she steepled his fingers. “I’m an industrialist at heart. You’re a Navy man. How you feel about that?”

Marcus paused, not having expected that particular question. “Well,” he reasoned, “rank doesn’t make the man. Or woman,” he quickly added. “If you’re flying fighters, you’ve got a carrier; you don’t fly carriers unless you’re a top commander. I’d wager you’re a better tactician than some Navy brats who bought their command, sir.” he ventured.

She smiled. “I like that.” Reaching for a data pad, she input a few commands and held it out to Marcus. “Standard pay and bonuses. A shuttle for the Alethia leaves 0800 tomorrow, bay 94-C. Scan your ID chip to confirm.”

Marcus took the pad and scanned down it quickly out of habit. His brow furrowed, and he handed the pad back. “Sir, this isn’t standard fighter pay,” he said. “It’s too high.”

The capsuleer angled her head slightly, brown hair framing her exquisitely pale features. “It’s bomber pay.”

Marcus froze, and the pad nearly dropped. Bomber? Those were theoretical! Weren’t they? There’s no way I’m qualified.

Sensing his questions, the capsuleer raised a thin arm. “Fresh off the line. No one’s flown one before, so you’re as good as anyone. Now sign the contract and get out of my office, please? There’s a roomful of people out there and a list full of empty positions to fill.”

Scarcely pausing to contemplate why those positions were empty, Marcus look at the pad, scanned his chip, and handed it back in a daze. “Thank you, sir. 0900, yes sir!”

The capsuleer smiled faintly. “Welcome aboard. Next!”

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The klaxon hadn’t yet finished a cycle and Marcus was wide awake. Whipping the covers off his bunk he jumped out, pulling on a tunic and stumbling into pants. Elsewhere in the room, bathed in the bright general-quarters lightning, other operators scrambled to throw on clothes before bolting out the door and into the cavernous drone bay, where the watch crews were already warming up the engines on the mechanical beasts.

Each of the two dozen pilots automatically sprinted towards their ship. The Cyclops-class fighter-bombers were identical, down to the last rivet, but somehow each knew which to sprint towards. Marcus reached his just as the bay crew rolled up a ladder. “What’s the word?” he asked the tech as he approached.

“Nothin’,” said the tech. “Least, not yet. We formed up with a fleet a few jumps ago for a patrol; since then—”

The tech was cut off by the sound of the capsuleer commander’s voice booming through the drone bay. “Capital engagement, scramble all bombers. Repeat, capital engagement; I want bombers in the air two minutes ago!”

Flashing a quick thumbs-up, Marcus slid into the cockpit of the seventy-meter bomber. All systems were powered, and the docking clamps were disengaged. Let’s fly! He smoothly throttled up the engines of the Aunix—named after his grandmother—and shot out of the bay at a thousand klicks per second, hurtling towards the target designated as primary by his ship’s computers.

The target was an Apocalpyse-class battleship. Once, when he flew mere drones, he would have thought the notion of going toe to toe with one of the proud Amarr behemoths insanity at best, but things were different now. He was flying one of the most powerful pieces of weaponry a non-capsuleer could hope to command. A tactical display indicated a dozen of his comrades right behind him, each with similarly powerful vessels.

The Apocalypse’s commander was not blind to the threat the bombers posed. Raw streams of energy lanced the Aunix’s shields. Again they impacted, now tearing through—and then the bomber’s blue engine trails gave way for an expanding cloud of blue vapor and shrapnel.

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“Welcome,” said the female capsuleer in a bored tone to the fresh-faced woman facing her. “You are here because of a combination of exceptional talent and finely honed skill. Should you be selected as part of my crew, you will be flying with the best of the best….”

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