Caspian and Kieran stared at the screen in stunned silence.
“Looks like it’s done,” Ildar’s voice finally came through the earpiece, slightly out of breath but content. “39 minutes. Come on, Zoya.” Zoya’s side of the comms was silent. The only thing Caspian could hear was ragged breathing that reminded him of an animal; a wet, snarling sound.
“Zoya,” Ildar snapped, now a bit impatiently, and the ragged breathing turned into a startled, exhausted voice.
“Interceptor to Operator, simulation objective cleared,” Zoya announced, stumbling over her words, “completion time, uh, 39 minutes. And… you got the data, right? From our vitals, and from Interceptor?”
“We sure did,” Kieran exhaled to the mic. “Thank you, this will be all. We will get back to you; for now, get changed, eat something, go rest. Simulation over.”
He muted his microphone and dropped his headset to the table with an annoyed gesture, but his expression was dumbstruck. Caspian watched as the monitor hologram brought the connection offline, then the lights on the simulator turned off one by one.
Silence stretched between them.
“Well, that was different,” Caspian sighed as soon as he saw the siblings stepping out of the simulator. Kieran didn’t look at him. His arms were folded on his chest and his eyes were aimed at Zoya and Ildar. Caspian waited.
“So,” Kieran finally started with a tense voice. “What’s your take? Is this something they could pull in a real situation, or was that just simulator tricks?” Caspian heard very clearly that Kieran had an answer he wanted, and he could guess what it was too. He started scrolling the data feed to the beginning.
No longer did the data seem random to him. Earlier, they had tried to force the newer models to do something that was impossible for the machines. Compared to every single pilot Caspian had ever seen, it had been random.
But now he saw it, all of it, as if someone had translated their intentions to him. It was all there, every strategic decision, every attempt of turning the system offline, hands reaching for an emergency switch that the newer models simply didn’t have.
Ildar’s annoyance and Zoya’s helplessness were shown in a new light.
“Do you have their vitals somewhere? The Interceptor simulated vitals, in particular?” Caspian asked to buy time, and Kieran handed him the tablet. A quick glance revealed his hunch having been true: Interceptor had suffered little to no damage, all of it fixable, none of it lethal for pilots. One heavy blow had dented the hull at Zoya’s side, but Ildar’s side of the cockpit was untouched.
“Wow, check out that adrenaline,” he laughed in disbelief when he checked Zoya’s vital monitor. “Pulse, too. You’d think she’s having a heart attack.” When he had analysed the initial data, he had dismissed the rapid pulse as a margin of error in the field measurements. It happened, and unless it would repeat in the diagnostics, it shouldn’t have been anything to worry about.
Now it had repeated, but after seeing Interceptor in action, it wasn’t the first or the fifth thing Caspian was worried about.
“Honestly? For a moment I thought she was,” Kieran huffed. His hand came to card through his hair in a frustrated motion. “And it was her running those sequences too. Ildar seemed to be the tactical shotcaller, but when it came to actually piloting, she is evidently the one who knows which button does what.”
His eyes were distant and there was reluctance in them. Caspian could understand it; Ildar gave off the impression of being more than a bit of an asshole, but he also seemed like the type to have a stomach for combat. It was difficult to see Zoya as a soldier, let alone the main pilot.
“Haven’t we learned something new here today. Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Caspian nudged Kieran playfully as an attempt to lighten his words, but Kieran’s eyes were relentless as they turned to him.
“I asked you a question, and if you keep skirting around it, the next time I ask it will be an order.” His voice had the slightest bit of ice in it, and Caspian turned back to the tablet. He had made it a point to never upset Kieran unless it was strictly necessary.
“Well, Interceptor did clear the simulation,” he finally started as he saved the data to a separate file on his own tablet. “Nobody gets through it just by randomly pressing the buttons, not even by chance.”
The real question here was what it would look like in an actual battle.
“Both of them are still alive after three years of combat, which I think is the biggest evidence it’s not just a software trick,” Caspian continued and handed Kieran’s tablet back. “Their quaint little village didn’t have any simulators. Doubt they’d just suddenly come across the idea of that kind of unorthodox shit. I think they’re the real deal.”
“So it’s possible?”
“It’s dangerous,” Caspian emphasised and fixed his eyes on the assisting screen. It showed exactly the same numbers as his tablet, but looking at it meant he didn’t have to look at Kieran. “It’s reckless, and might get one or both killed. Interceptor is not an enduring fighter; it was never intended as one. One wrong move and the hull is gone.”
“But is it possible?” Kieran’s words were more insistent now, and Caspian knew there was no more delaying the inevitable. He joined his palms under his chin and nodded with a deep sigh.
“It is. It’s dangerous, reckless and fucked up, but technically it is possible to do that,” he stated firmly. “Not with newer models, though; from the top of my head, only the older models like Interceptor would be able to pull that. And even if the newer models could do that, it poses a question if we really value the lives of our pilots so little.”
Kieran sighed deeply and gave a slow nod, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers.
“So if it’s that dangerous, why would anyone want to do it?” He opened the simulation data as he spoke, and Caspian knew without turning to look which numbers Kieran was staring at.
“You know the answer to that, Kieran,” he sneered. Kieran arched a brow at him.
“Do I, Officer?” Caspian leaned closer despite Kieran’s tone and stuck his finger next to the number depicting clearance time.
“This is the most used simulation in this base, and they cleared it in under half of the time usually allocated for it. That’s not nothing,” he stated, poking the number. His giddiness had not worn off. “Obviously their methods are crude, and honestly, if you’re going to let them keep pulling that off, I hope you’re gonna make them take flight lessons in other models as well. I want to see what kind of shit they can come up with on Phantom.”
“Fucking nerd,” Kieran sneered, then sighed with a wry expression. “Ildar already flipped his shit at me when he saw I had gone ahead and gotten them a Raptor. I said it’s just a temporary change, but he said it’s faster for me to see the simulation results than for him to try to ‘get it through my skull’ why Raptor is not an option for them. Should have tossed him to brig for disobedience.”
“He’ll be out in no time, we need good pilots in the field,” Caspian laughed and leaned back on his chair. Kieran huffed a short unamused sound that turned into a frustrated sigh as he slapped his hand on top of the paper pile. It contained information and requests for all the standardised models in the base; Phantom, Raptor, Typhoon.
“Shit, there goes my chance of getting them a better model.” He gritted his teeth and pressed the paper pile harder with his palm, as if hoping he could force it to disappear. Caspian watched in silence as Kieran drew a deep, steadying breath. With almost mechanical movements he picked up the papers and dropped them into trash.
“Apparently those two really like the mobility,” Caspian noted when Kieran slumped in his chair.
“Because they are used to piloting that piece of shit in the hangar,” Kieran exclaimed, pushing himself up so forcefully the chair fell over and dropping his tablet angrily at the table. “What this means is that I’m either sending them out in that ticking time bomb, or I’m not sending them out at all!”
Caspian followed Kieran’s movements as he leaned against the table for a moment, took a couple of frustrated steps in the room and finally headed for the exit. Someone had to turn off the control panel, so Caspian clicked the power button and followed in the same direction.
They headed up the stairs, and from there took the turn that led them to a place where they could see down the hallway.
Ildar and Zoya had finished changing their pilot suits to standard gear and seemed to be heading towards the canteen. Ildar led the duo with brisk, confident steps, not sparing a single glance behind and seemingly holding a whole conversation by himself.
Zoya followed a few steps back, shoulders slumped and eyes thoughtful and withdrawn in a manner that implied she had excluded herself from the conversation.
“Fuck,” Kieran sighed and leaned against the railing. “I did not see this coming.”
“What did you think would happen?” Caspian assumed a similar position as Kieran, right next to him, and watched Ildar. He was animated in his speech and seemed to occasionally pause for a sound or acknowledgement from his sister.
“I thought Ildar would be the better pilot and the better soldier, that he was too stubborn to admit a newer model would be good, and that once he would get to try it out, he’d let us disintegrate their junkyard trash,” Kieran listed. “Instead, it’s as if he didn’t even care what they pilot, because she’s the one who actually understands piloting. And if she is the one I’m supposed to talk to, how am I supposed to communicate with that?”
Kieran pointed towards the two. Caspian nodded in understanding. Even if the two of them had stood side by side and Ildar had been hurling insults, it would still feel easier to talk to him than the shut-off sibling. At least he used words, uncouth as they may be.
Caspian thought back to the sound he had heard from Zoya after the simulation had been over; the snarling breath, dripping with saliva and effort. Thought back to the pictures on the pilot folder; strained, hungry, hostile stares.
“I don’t think you have a choice to not send them out,” Caspian noted and turned to Kieran. “Good pilots like that are hard to find. We don’t really have time and resources to waste, and now Tiger is out of commission as well.” He kept his voice carefully measured, but still saw Kieran’s hands curl up in angry fists.
Ildar and Zoya had reached the door of the canteen. Ildar stopped and Zoya looked up, and he said something to her with an arrogant smirk. The two of them exchanged a brief hug at the door, before Ildar continued down the hallway. Zoya gave him a brief wave, then turned her head just slightly back to where they had come from.
Caspian had an unnerving feeling she was staring straight at them. And she wasn’t staring at them like a human; there was something of a wild animal in her body language.
“God fucking damn,” Kieran sighed and released his hands, drawing Caspian’s attention back to himself. “I don’t really have a choice in this, do I?” Caspian took the cue to avert his eyes from Zoya.
“As an analyst, I’m really looking forward to seeing what kind of data those two will bring back to us,” he said, allowing a playful note to sneak in his voice.
When he next looked at the canteen door, Zoya was gone.
***
Often, in the evenings he spent at the boiler room, he thought about piloting.
It was a technological marvel, to be able to connect the will and intent of moving your body and muscles to instead move parts of a machine instead. Part focus, part instinct, part something Caspian couldn’t quite place his finger on, it was a collection of connections all moving in as one.
As someone who had never experienced it personally, there was a lot he couldn’t speak about when it came to the exacts. The techno side of it was what interested him; he knew the history behind the tech, how the initial tests had been done with single pilots and met with an instant barrier. How only a handful of people in the whole world were capable of piloting a mecha on their own.
Those prodigies were the first ones to be sent to the battlefield, but due to inexperience with new technology and the lack of knowledge on their enemy, less than 10% of the pilots survived.
More mechas were deployed once the scientists managed to find a way to share the strain: in the dawn of the war that stretched the limits of reality as they knew it, three pilots was found to be the most stable number for piloting. There was no longer a need for prodigies, only people who were compatible with each other. With this advancement, the tide of the war began to change.
Nowadays, three pilots was a luxury.
As the numbers of suitable soldiers dwindled, the military started to make do with only two pilots whenever it was possible - not to save on expenses, but simply because finding two people compatible with each other was easier than finding and matching three. Thus, over the course of years, two pilots on one mecha became the new standard.
Caspian had heard there were no proper words for the connection the pilots shared. Despite that, Nova had tried.
“Establishing that connection, slowly feeling the sensation of becoming one moving part with Liam and Tiger,” Nova had murmured just the other night, staring into the bottom of the bottle, “it has always been one of my favourite moments. With it, I could sense what Liam was thinking or feeling - flashes of memories, pain, intention.”
“Sounds pretty invasive,” Caspian had replied. Nova had remained silent for a moment and finished his bottle.
“It’s closeness,” he admitted, “in a way nothing else is.” His brows had knitted, his expression had turned sullen.
“Is it, you know,” Caspian paused, realising it was not the most fair or tactful thing to ask, “intimate?” Nova scoffed and looked at him with one brow arched.
“You’d think that, but not really, not like that,” he sighed, making it known to Caspian he wasn’t the first person to ask. “Maybe for some people it can be, but it’s…” Nova leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“It’s difficult to explain.”
It wasn’t the first time Caspian had heard that answer.
Tonight, Nova didn’t come to the boiler room to share a drink. Caspian hoped it wasn’t because of a decommission.
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