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Year Seven
Vincent Markis, now dubbed “Vango” by his jet fighter training class, sat still for a moment, just feeling Callisto’s roughly one-eighth gravity as it pulled steadily on him. It seemed somehow different from acceleration or spin gravity, even from that of the grav-plates he had experienced on the transport out from Earth.
It had taken him a while to figure “Vango” out, because no one would tell him. The derivation of pilots’ call signs, “names” or “handles,” was always supposed to stay secret for as long as possible, a game to those in the know. Many were obvious, such as those popularized in the movies: “Maverick” for the rebel, “Iceman” for the cool technician, “Goose” for the funny looking guy with the long neck.
But “Vango”...it had taken a serendipitous song on the radio, Don McLean’s “Vincent,” to make the connection in his mind: Van Gogh. Vango. The appellation was both a relief and a disappointment. He’d hoped it would have some deeper meaning than just a word play on his name...but then again, perhaps it was better not to, considering the artist’s tragic life.
Or maybe it meant they thought he was an artist with the airplane?
Okay, I’ll take it. Besides, showing any displeasure with the handle your comrades give you is a surefire way to make them think you can’t hack it.
At least he hadn’t been tagged with “Cupcake,” like one guy, or the young woman that got “Stringy.”
Vango unbuckled last, earning a couple of funny looks about his reticence from the other passengers as they filed out of the acceleration seating area. Maybe in the future entire ships would be gravplated and passengers could stay in their quarters or the rec areas even as they maneuvered, but for now they had to be collected in one area and restrained for extra safety. Human technology now cut everything close for efficiency’s sake. With the Destroyer only two years out, that meant very few luxuries.
About half of the human cargo on board were prospective Aardvark pilots, jet jockeys all and certain that they would tear through this course just as they had all their training before. Despite the nearly hundred thousand pilot roster to eventually fill, Earth was producing plenty of qualified candidates. Most Edens didn’t have the problems the old normals used to: weak eyes, badly tuned inner ears, heart problems, any number of niggling issues that used to disqualify ninety percent of the population before they even applied.
So Vango was the last off the ship as he shuffled down the ramp and through the mandatory ID checks. After that, he looked around, having been told someone would be there to meet him.
Apparently that someone was one harried lieutenant and a sergeant driving the open electric tram that sat next to an exit from the hangar. The officer held up a sign with the letters AAT on them, for Advanced Attack Training, the official name for the qualification course. Twenty-odd men and women, all cast from the same clear-eyed clean-cut mold, gaggled toward the two and climbed onto the vehicle. It reminded Vango of those things at Disneyland that took people to and from the parking areas.
He found himself next to a pleasant-looking blonde woman holding a carry bag like his in her lap. “Hi,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. “Vango.” This was one moment that he was glad to use just his handle; the Markis name had often made him a target, forcing him to play everything even more by the book than he was inclined.
“Pleasedtameetcha,” she replied, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “Stevie. Ain’t this a hoot? Can’t wait to climb into an Aardvark.” If he’d had to place her accent, he guessed it was from somewhere in the American South, sounding a bit like Aunt Cassie.
Already her eyes had slid past him and stared out into infinite space, and he guessed that she must love the freedom of flight just as much as he did. “What d’you fly?” he asked, the safest of aviator’s questions.
“Super Ospreys. U.S. Navy. You?”
“F-35s. South African Air Force.”
“I guess we’re all EarthFleet now, huh?”
“I guess we are.” The supranational military service had standardized uniforms, but retained the Army, Navy, Aerospace and Marine force designators that overlapped with most of the source nations’ services. That meant Stevie wore whites while Vango sported sky blue, the uniforms’ only concessions to their original nationality a flag on the left shoulder of each. He’d heard Admiral Absen wanted to get rid of that too, but the Combined Council had overruled him.
Vango wondered how long after the Destroyer was dealt with until Earth’s fractious nations would go back to feuding, and unconsciously shook his head.
“What? You look like someone just ate y’all’s doughnut,” Stevie said.
“Y’all? I thought that word was plural in your dialect.”
“Mah dah-uh-lect? This ain’t a dah-uh-lect, Vee, it’s an ack-say-ent,” she said, pronouncing these words as if they had three syllables. “Now if I lapsed into Cajun, that would be a dah-uh-lect. And don’t start about me talkin’ funny, not with you sounding like some weird District Nine journalist from Seyth Effrica.”
“Sorry,” Vango replied, turning away from her vitriol.
“Oh, hey, ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” she replied, changing her speech pattern yet again.
Vango kept his eyes straight ahead as they cruised down a wide two-lane tunnel, passing other electric vehicles on the way, and after a moment Stevie punched his shoulder.
“Come on, Van. I’m just jerkin’ your chain. It’s ’cause I like ya.”
He smiled uncomfortably and glanced her way, then faced front again, unnerved by her strange forward manner. The women he’d grown up with had been smart and kind, but never acted like this, except for a few of the girls in school, whom he’d avoided. One of the reasons he liked flying was its clarity and structure, its checklists, its right and wrong answers.
Girls like this didn’t fit.
“Oh, mah, it looks like I have a lot of work to do,” Stevie went on with a dramatic sigh.
“Yes, we all do,” Vango responded, deliberately acting as if he misunderstood. Maybe if he was lucky they would be nowhere near each other as they trained, at least until their schedules filled with work. After that, perhaps she wouldn’t have time to bother him.
