Rei gave his head a quick shake, as though to drive the thought from his mind. That’s crazy.
“Targets increasing velocity. Speed now three-zero… The Knights can’t catch up to them.”
Before Burgadish had even finished speaking, Rei had keyed the dogfight switch to ON and pulled the trigger. Knight-I and V, nearest to the targeted JAM, fired their lasers. There was a long delay from Knight-II, or rather, it seemed like a long delay but was not even five seconds. Target detonation. Knight-I and V couldn’t avoid being caught in the heart of the nuclear blast. However, Knight-II quickly changed course and fled. Almost as though it were alive.
“B-3,” came the call from the control plane. “Send K-II to the target indicated. What’s wrong, B-3? You want the Knight to get lost?”
Rei came to himself again. He released his finger from the trigger. The stores control panel read RDY FK II.
Knight-I and V had disappeared. Flipping the dogfight switch to OFF, he guided Knight-II to its next target.
“Come back alive,” Rei murmured. At the very least, don’t get killed. He could sort all this out later. He’d have plenty of time. As long as he kept himself alive.
III
MYSTERIOUS BATTLE ZONE
The JAM were targeting Yukikaze. She was fighting them to the utmost limits of her abilities. He could not perceive the fierce battle being waged between them, yet he knew the enemy was there. She was warning him: They’re here.
THE MAN CAME bearing nationalism. After touring several sectors of Faery Base, his pale blue eyes protected behind a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators, he announced that he wanted to learn more about the mindset of the soldiers who fought the JAM.
Although he had a press pass issued by the United Nations Earth Defense Force GHQ, Faery Base’s authorities didn’t want him there, which they made clear in the way they treated him. They carefully questioned him to make sure the purpose of his investigation was not simply to reinforce his own preconceptions and warned him not to write an article that would be slanted in favor of a specific country.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” American freelance journalist, military critic, lobbyist, and writer Andy Lander asked with an irritated air. “Are you suggesting that I’d intentionally write a biased article?”
“Not at all,” answered Colonel Roland of the base’s Office of Public Affairs. “I’m just asking you to recognize the fact that this is a war between all of humanity and an alien race. As to how you do your job—”
“Yes, of course I realize that. But I think that approach is a little too vague. I want to ask the soldiers about what tangible things they’re fighting for here on the front lines of Faery, not about some abstract sense of duty.”
“Our mission is to defend Earth. What’s so abstract about that? The only reason we’re here is to keep the people of Earth from being attacked.”
“I’d still like to try and conduct a deeper analysis than that.”
“Then why don’t I save you the trouble?” Colonel Roland responded with an irritated look on his face. “Here’s what we’re fighting for: self-preservation. In combat, that’s all that matters.” His expression suddenly softened. “A perfect answer, don’t you think? A solid answer. It’s not as if anyone here actually wants this war.”
“Would anyone be that crazy?”
“There are plenty of people back on Earth who might be. A lot of individuals and organizations are making huge profits from it.”
In the end, Lander never heard anyone in the FAF say that they were fighting for their homeland. And he had certainly never anticipated witnessing a scenario in which Russians were fighting using American-made weapons, or even more shocking, vice versa.
Although the materials for the majority of the fighter systems the FAF was equipped with came from Earth, the designs were entirely their own. Lander tried to gather information on the research and development teams but was given no details: each time, his inquiry was blocked for “security reasons.” Finally, in a fit of pique, he declared that he thought it was a misuse of funding for the FAF to be developing fighters on its own without passing that technology back to Earth. He demanded to know what sort of fighters were being developed and was determined to see one for himself. Then he formally requested the opportunity to go up in one. He had never flown in anything aside from passenger jets, but he was an intrepid individual and in good physical health. He was a man who had traveled the world, after all.
The FAF authorities, partially to rid themselves of what was becoming a significant annoyance, granted him immediate approval. Colonel Roland told Lander that he hoped he’d appreciate being able to personally evaluate the sort of highperformance equipment being used to protect Earth. Lander was given a physical exam and some simple anti-G training, and then signed a waiver stating that the air force could not be held responsible if anything happened to him.
“So,” Lander asked, “what sort of plane do I get to ride in?”
“A Sylphid,” said Colonel Roland.
“Huh,” Lander responded with a faint smile. “That’s a pretty girly sounding name.” He adjusted his sunglasses and brushed back his hair, which he had dyed black from its natural blond. Blond hair, Lander believed, looked too effeminate.
“ANDY LANDER? NEVER heard of him”
Rei paused while eating his lunch and looked at Major Booker, who was seated across from him. Rei had lost at cards the night before and as a penalty had to buy lunch, but the major’s tray was a modest affair, with just a ham sandwich and a Coke.
“Has he ever even flown before? Why do I have to have this joker in my backseat?”
“Are you going to make me spell it out for you?” said Booker, miserably gnawing on his sandwich. “Orders. As in General Cooley’s. And more importantly, it’s the central computer’s orders too. It went through the personnel files and came up with a list of possible candidates for this duty. Oddly enough, they were all in Boomerang Squadron. Well, I suppose it was an obvious result given the kind of man Lander is.”
The major laid a printout of a current affairs magazine article down in front of Rei. Rei picked it up and skimmed it; it was a diatribe about the United States not using American-made goods anymore. He checked the date on the bottom of the page. The article had been written just six months ago. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the dateline had been decades before that.
“He’s like a relic from the last century. An ideological throwback.”
“Well, he’s not alone. Considering how tense the current international situation is, the fact that a transnational organization like the FAF even exists is practically a miracle. It’s too dangerous to let him wander around here for very long because he can use the material he gathers to stir up all sorts of prejudices back on Earth. So where do you quarantine an ultra-nationalist prick on a fact-finding mission? Say, oh, a squadron isolated from the rest of the normal combat units. Get it now?”
“Shit. I’m getting tired of being the ‘special’ in ‘Special Air Force’…”
Rei was already short-tempered because for nearly a week he had been undergoing a battery of psychological analysis tests conducted by a Dr. Halévy of the Air Force Combat Psychology Research Center. Halévy was supposed to be the leading man in the field of combat psychology, but to Rei it was a pretty pointless distinction. When Rei commented how ironic it was that the doctor spent his days talking about air combat theory while remaining perfectly safe underground, Halévy folded his hands and looked grave. “Lieutenant Fukai,” he intoned, “I’m fighting, too.” I’d like to see you fight off a missile with theory, Rei thought sourly. On the battlefield, theory and abstract analysis were useless. Why couldn’t anyone not on the front line understand that?