Forerunner Series - Total Eclipse #5

-= Total Eclipse =-
Chapter 1

February 15^th, 2279

Mars – Melas Chasma Naval Academy

Pilot Trainee Shyla Redding and EWO Trainee Garret Mathews

            “Oh jees-us!  God help me, God help me, God help me!” the guy in back screamed and cried as he was thrown over into a negative 6G dive followed by an almost 10G pull-out.  The fighter’s inertia dampeners and the GIBs G-Suit strained to keep blood flowing through his body.  Again, the fighter rolled out into a dive followed by a steep climb into roll to an inverted dive to complete a loop.  The EWO Trainee felt his stomach bail-out and he snatched for the airsick bag.  He didn’t manage to get his mask off in time and made a complete mess out of the backseat. 

“Dammit Shyla, that’s enough!  Get your ass back on the ground!  Are you doing this to piss me off?!”  The agitated voice over the channel wasn’t directed at the sick trainee, but rather the over-eager pilot that was trying with all her might to make the trainee Electronic Weapons Officer sick.  Trainee Shyla Redding had the reputation as being the worst pilot at the academy.  Truth was: she was the best.  But her antics made her disliked by the rest of her class.  She had already washed out three EWO Trainees on her own.  Two refused to fly again and dropped out, while the third required hospital stay on Earth for ‘rest and relaxation’. 

The agitated person over the radio was her instructor, Sergeant-Major Michaels - the man had no first name that Shyla was aware of.  He’d taken an immediate dislike to her smug, overconfident attitude since day one at the Academy and had driven her harder than the rest.  Nobody really remembered how it started, but over one shout-filled dinner, a wager was put up that Michaels would find her a GIB if it killed him.  Since then, it had been her personal mission in life to get anyone and everyone that was brave enough to crawl into her trainer sick and miserable.  To Michael’s frustration, she was exceptionally good at it. 

11-05-07

            “Roger that, Control,” Shyla said, her smug tone oozing through the radio.  Michaels raged in the Melas Chasma Control Tower.  The Naval Academy on Mars was built into one of the giant canyon’s walls, and the Academy was designed to teach pilots harsh-conditions flying.  The last test in the course was to survive a run through Melas Chasma itself and beat a specific time.  The time to beat was a record that many pilots, striving for greatness, found themselves on the wrong side of a crater instead for their efforts.  As harsh as it sounded, the trainers were highly-durable fighters, and casualties were rare. 

            Michaels had prescribed a ground-hugging course to the north-west of the canyon.  Shyla, instead, had gone off on her own flying high-and-tight over the course.  Michaels had been swearing and screaming at her over the radio ever since.  It was the first time Shyla had ever pulled such a stunt, and if Michael’s reaction was any indication, would probably be her last.  Rumors had already been hard at work relaying the fact that she had been kicked out of the Luna Naval Academy and another one on Europa out by Jupiter.  Rumors said this was her last stop. 

            Shyla brought the trainer into the canyon-side hangar bay, hovering side-ways and down for a perfect three-pointer as if she’d been doing it all her life.  Most cadets couldn’t attempt a canyon landing until almost graduation, but she’d mastered it in her first week.  Her instructors could see it, and so could her classmates: Shyla was a genius pilot.  She was probably the best that had ever graced Melas Chasma.  But her attitude, disregard for authority, and just plain old out-and-out stubbornness quickly soured any good merit she achieved with her flying.  Michaels saw it, and knew what she needed as well.  She needed an EWO that would ground her, balance out her wild-side with common sense, or, more usefully, sheer dumb-luck.  It was that knowledge that had led him to the thrice-cursed wager with her.  At first, he thought it wouldn’t be hard to find her such a GIB, but now, almost three months later, he was finally at his wit’s end.  And this latest stunt was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

            Michaels was already on the tarmac, storming towards the trainer when the back hatch popped.  Garret practically fell out of the aircraft, saving his dignity with one well-placed foot on the fold-out ladder.  He didn’t make another two steps before collapsing in a heap and promptly throwing up what he hadn’t the first time.  The front hatch opened, and the pilot confidently stood and climbed down to the tarmac.  Michaels stood there staring at her. 

            Shyla was just shy of six feet with a perfect athletic body, which was put into stark relief with the skin-tight anti-G suit.  She cracked the seal on her helmet and pulled it off.  Her shoulder-length jet-black hair fell out in a sweaty tumble, half still matted to her face.  Her face was pretty, but not overly beautiful, but it was her eyes that really grabbed and pulled you in.  They were what gave her away as a true-born Martian.  Being a bright red in color, they mimicked the color of the dirt that covered her home planet.  Not all Martians had the red eyes, but the trait was becoming more common in every generation.  Scientists were still trying to figure out exactly what made the particular eye pigment change hue from its earth-side blue, but they had found it was genetic and being passed down into every subsequent generation. 

            She turned those red eyes on Michaels and gave him a lopsided grin.  She stood there holding her helmet off of her shoulder and the other hand on her hip.  “I guess, what is that, Shyla eight, Sergeant-Major zero?”

            Michaels turned a shade that was almost a match for her eyes.  “My office, now.”

11-06-07

            Shyla shoved her helmet at a technician and followed after Michaels.  His office was a small area off the main hangar that had originally been intended as a small break room.  He’d removed all of the countertops, built the desk, and then wired the office with patch feeds from the main data lines himself.  He had kept the water cooler in the corner.

            Michaels opened the door and held it for her.  She walked in and smartly stopped in front of his desk at attention.  Michaels closed the door and came up behind her. 

            “I don’t understand you, Redding,” he started in a quiet voice.  Shyla was momentarily thrown off balance: she’d expected a screaming tirade. 

            “You’ve completed almost every little thing this Academy has required you to do with damn near flying colors; hell, you’ve exceeded their requests most of the time.  You’re record from Misawa and Amalthea Academies was spotless, except for your psychological report.  Stubborn, reckless and insubordinate are the nice words.  There is no question of your skills.  The question is obviously your attitude.  So what the hell’s the malfunction, Redding?”

            Shyla at this point would have rather had a screaming tirade.  She opened her mouth to speak several times, before finally saying “It’s complicated, sir.”

            “Uncomplicate it, Redding.”

            When Shyla didn’t say anything immediately, Michaels waved her off.  “Never mind, if it’s something that personal, you figure it out.  But this wild behavior, making an effort to run off every EWO that jumps into your back seat has got to stop.”  Michaels, who had been holding the entire conversation from behind her, finally came around to his desk and sat down.  He looked up into her red eyes.  “This Academy will no longer tolerate your behavior.  Pack your things, you’re done here.”

            Shyla, not completely surprised, still couldn’t hold down the sudden impulse of panic, “But sir!  I need this!  I have to become a Navy Pilot!”

            Michaels shook his head.  “No, you obviously don’t.  You can’t keep your act together long enough to prove it.”

            Shyla’s red eyes darted around the room trying to find an answer that would keep her afloat.  She found nothing that helped.  “Sir, how can I prove myself?”

            Michaels reclined back in his chair and studied her eyes for a long moment.  In truth, he’d been baiting her and was expecting her to say such a thing.  Of course, he also half-expected her to also expect such a thing and so he was prepared for her to be faking her panic.  He knew he had her cold.  “Fine, I’ll give you one last chance to prove yourself.  And I mean one.  You screw this up and you’ll be flying Martian tour planes for the rest of your career.  You get me?” 

            She straightened to rigid attention, her chin high, “Sir, yes sir.”

            “Fine.  I’m glad you understand.  I’m going to give you your last EWO.  He walks, you walk.  Get the hell out of my office,” he said dismissing her with a growl.  Shyla saluted and smartly left the office.

            Shyla stormed from the hangar to the barracks.  She passed several of her classmates on the way, but none said a word or even acknowledged her passing.  She rode the elevator down into the academy proper, which was burrowed far into the Melas Chasma walls.  From the hangar to her barracks were two security check points, three elevators, and a trip through the common room.  There were quite a few Trainees eating and studying when she passed through.  She knew very few of them personally, and those she did know, didn’t like her, so she moved right on through.  A large EWO excused himself from his group and caught up to Shyla.  He fell into step behind her and continued in that position until Shyla grew irritated and turned on him.

            “Can I help you?” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice. 

            The large EWO, nearly a head taller than her and three times her build held out a beefy hand, “Name’s Nate.  Nate Beasley.  Nice to meet you.”

            Shyla took his proffered hand, albeit coldly, then asked, “That’s great, do you need something?”

            “Oh, no,” he said, a small blush running across his broad face, “No, I, just wanted to introduce myself to my new pilot.  Here’s to good flights!”  A female cadet back in the room called to him, and he excused himself.  Shyla stood there looking after him slightly in surprise.  Damn that Michaels, she thought.  She’d been totally had.  All the crap in his office had all been a setup so he’d win the bet. 

Shyla changed her destination and instead went to the commissary and put in an order for a case of Terran Whiskey.  She’d have to pick it up off-base, of course, and the cost alone set her back nearly a month.  She swore to herself catching the attention of the clerk who shot her a disapproving glare.  She made a hasty exit back to her dorm. 

            The night didn’t pass easily for Shyla.  The day’s antics and frustrations had her wound tight.  After a few hours unable to fall asleep, she went to the squash court and played against a holo-opponent until she was exhausted.  After which, she showered and then collapsed into her bunk, but was roused only a few measly hours later for morning muster.