#1 - Interceptor Pilot #247

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#1 - Interceptor Pilot #247

Postby vemlich » Fri Aug 15, 2014 10:47 pm

I answered the call…”Fighter Pilots Needed”.

When you are born into Rallebian life, you have one of two goals: Accumulation or Commerce. Being a fighter pilot was not on my horizon. Well, all that changed a few years ago. The Rallebian Clan allied with a mining outfit. More of an arrangement for more resources. We would allow certain shipments to go unscathed. Ships intact. Alien lives saved. We get paid in money and ore, and we didn’t have to raid them, just their competitor. What a negotiation. (But of course this is all truly speculation with a hint of definite deniability). That’s when things changed. Along with the ore, came these tech guys and her.

Everyone knows the reasons why. Some female miner from a nearby colony lures the emperor’s son away. I mean for god’s sake, she came from a colony. She keeps him occupied and happy. Parents are embarrassed, for he was already promised to another family. Yes, the elitist still arrange marriages. They believe it is the best way to manipulate (I mean accumulate) wealth and standing within the empire. You know moms. “How could this colony girl keep her eldest son happy and occupied?” “She is from the Quezallian Empire.” You know: blaming Dad, friends, school and the galactic internet. Then, these mining guys revealed the planet her son went to is supposedly loaded with ore. The miners have the entire galaxy mapped out by ore. The home world planet where this girl is from is Blue: only green is better. Our home world is 4th tier, kind of a pissy, dull yellow. So the Accumulation of ore began, along with the recruiting.

The elitist cordoned off a section of our capitol city. That is Rallebian for, “Built a huge wall with keep out signs every 20 feet along with armed guards”. Then we saw it. A special space dock labeled Accumulation Development.

We have fighters. But they are for defense. Hidden in deep dark subsector space. Waiting patiently for uninvited aliens…… Then accumulation of scrap metal begins.

These new fighters are different. Faster, sleeker, meant to pack a punch, but not very defensive. Seems like if anything bigger than your average Cestodial Hegemony dust digger could seriously damage the ship: (That was the first clue something was amiss). The recruiting started right when mass production began.

Training is simple. Complete the mission in the new simulator with more than three kills. You are ready. The simulator is kind of like a life-sized video game except for the over-zealous, uptight, baton wielding Sargent who pokes you in the ribs with a baton when you screw up or die. After 45 hours of simulator training, I have noticed a high correlation between screw-ups and dying. All I have achieved so far was 63 painfully pathetic deaths and multiple sore ribs. Then it happened. I survived the mission and landed back on base. The Talley counter read, “4 kills”.

My Sargent grunted, “You’ve graduated”. He sheathed his baton slowly and walked away.

Just under two years ago we sent our fighters to retrieve the prodigal son. 75 fighters left and none returned. We waited and waited. When the last moon gave way to dawn, we knew we were outmatched, but our resolve grew stronger, hatred deeper and the rewards grew bigger. (Got to love mom). That siren should have looked for another favorite son. The second wave of fighters had more success. We sent 150 of our new fighters, 96 were never seen again. The rest returned heroes. We learned the cold hearted truth, our fighter pilots were not superior. We killed less than 50. Hence, the new simulators.

In response, we did what we do best. Now, the lesson would be ours. 2 fleets of Corsair 3s. The newest of the Rallebian fleet. Stealthy and Fast, definitely superior! We watched them leave from the space dock. All training stopped, to watch the fleets disappear into the stars. 20 ships primed like a Plyuinkian cat. Those stalking eyes ready to pounce on its prey. Determined Corsair pilots: and our most experienced. It seemed almost unfair, but then, revenge never is. They returned victorious. 350 units of loot. Reports of starvation and lack of commerce. An economy in havoc. No Rallebian losses. Take that you wench of a son stealer!

Now, it’s my turn. 150 strong, and better equipped.
Determined …..Yes
Dedicated …..Yes
Well trained…If I survive, yes! But if I die, You suck, you baton wielding, rib smashing Sargent.

Green Light and we’re off. One wave, one mind, one mission, Ralleb
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