Sample Chapter from “The Phantom Flyers”
THE PHANTOM FLYERS - CHAPTER 6
Rex “Reckless” Durran felt the deep rumble in the soles of his feet well before the Phantom Flyer was even a speck on the horizon. Quickly packing his tools and slinging his bag across his back, he dashed down a dark channel between towering mountains of wreckage. Rounding a bend, he sprinted toward one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of twisted metal mountains that formed this section of the Zalas debris fields. Whereas much of the region had long-since been reclaimed by vegetation, this particular area had the interesting distinction of vegetation only growing on one half of each heap, with the exposed and rusting wreckage fully visible on the opposite side. It may have been a trick of wind or weather, although it made little difference to Reckless. The footing was treacherous, but he knew how to traverse the hills with precision. He had been doing it his whole life. He leapt ahead, ascending an unseen trail with practiced strides. He knew where the best vantage point was in this sector. He could climb to it blindfolded.
As he reached the summit, the cool night breeze dried the sweat on his face. He had been working particularly hard on extracting an Arubian thruster valve from a wrecked javelin-class fighter that was wedged between the hulls of two well-destroyed cargo freighters, but the ship’s construction from nearly 30 cycles ago made his tools all but useless. The piece had remained frustratingly in place, held tight by a set of rusted containment brackets, but Reckless was not easily deterred. After all, this was one of the last components he needed for his own personal project. He made a mental note to study the measurements of the containment brackets so he could craft a new tool when he got back to the shop. He would return to extract his prize at first light.
Reckless marveled at how wonderfully fresh the night air felt when he reached the summits. In the debris fields, it was consistently hot and stale at ground level, but up here he could fill his lungs. He took a deep breath and smiled. Of course, he knew a cool breeze on his face also meant he was out in the open and could be sighted from an infinite number of vantage points. Normally he would have been wary of detection by others who scavenged the junk heaps and laid claims to certain sectors here and there. It didn’t take an expert shooter to detect movement. Some of these mountains of wreckage had lain undisturbed for as many as Rex’s twenty years and maybe ten times that long, so any movement, especially at the summits, was suspect. All that a competing scavenger needed was a decent rifle, a good laser-scope, and a small measure of patience. Tonight, however, the moons were not yet out and the soft blue glow of the planet’s rings was still faint, so the darkness in the debris fields was nearly absolute. Reckless was just another shadow in a world of black. He stood alone, on the highest summit for miles around, and took in the night.
Settling into a comfortable captain’s chair that he had personally hauled up to this spot and installed on an array of silent bearing swivels, Reckless watched and waited. He loved the old military grade chair. It made him feel like he was in command of the entire sector. He relaxed into the plush, vacu-formed seat and swiveled ever-so-slightly to face the action. At the horizon line, a small dot of orange light danced, silent at this distance, looping in intricate patterns. And it was getting closer. Fast.
In the night skies of Zalas, it was not uncommon to see fast-moving racers rocketing through the night. This approaching ship, however, was special and Reckless knew this one’s movement patterns the moment he glimpsed the distant maneuvers.
He liked to call these nighttime racers the Phantom Flyers, for they were, indeed, members of that elite corps of pilots. However these runs in the night sky were clearly not done in any official capacity. Only the best pilots became Flyers, of course, and he would often glimpse them practicing various maneuvers under the cover of darkness through the debris fields, despite their base – or was it a temple? – being hundreds of kilometers away, near where the formal jump jousting duels took place. He knew the mystical Flyers also frequented the debris fields on foot, searching for components for their racers, all done as part of a rite of pilgrimage in service to their deity Gravity. Not unlike what he and his fellow mercs did, but at a much higher, and more meaningful, level. He had also heard legends that some of the Flyers had indeed been mercs just like him, recruited to join the ranks of the elite, but he always shrugged away that notion. He had never known anyone who had made that ascension, and if they did, he assumed those to be very special pilots, indeed, not guys like him. No matter. The ascension to that elite status fueled Rex’s imagination like nothing else.
Now he could hear the approaching ship and could make out the fiery afterburners that had seemed like a tiny lumo-bug just moments before. The engine sound was as distinctive as the maneuvers. This was the one he called the Spectre, alright. No doubt in his mind. The Spectre was a sleek and dangerous-looking black ship that he often saw executing the most daring maneuvers, over and over, mastering the speed and agility to take the fastest angles through the canyons of wreckage. The ship was fearless, almost angry, in its flying. In the years he had been observing the nighttime maneuvers of these mysterious ships, he could identify at least twenty different crafts, each unique in their look and signature flying styles. As this racer, no question his favorite, neared his position, he had to resist the urge to stand and cheer.
Clearly, the Spectre was a modified javelin-class, built for speed and agility, but even so, the pilot had installed a little something extra. He could not be sure, but he knew by the pitch of the engine at full-throttle that she was running much hotter than standard, and the ship itself must have been stripped to the bare essentials, no armor shielding, no frills. No javelin-class he had ever had his hands on could have made that sound or hit those speeds under full shielding, of that he was sure. This one was built for pure performance.
Reckless watched as the Spectre found more power and hit another speed threshold. He could not only see the craft clearly now, he could really feel it. His chest pounded as the racer approached. He knew the hill where he was seated was often a waypoint for the pilots and that the craft would likely make a sweeping turn around him before racing off into the night. He prepared for the final approach, the ship so close now that he could make out details even in the darkness. This one a single-seat, winged rocket, piloted by what must surely be one of the greatest Flyers in the world. The Spectre roared in close, swinging out, banking hard and screaming around the massive mountain of debris, wing-tips vertical as it banked hard in a difficult turn through the narrow canyon. The racer was holding the turn up on its wing so tightly that the canopy came within mere meters from colliding with the debris as it passed.
And then Reckless saw something entirely unexpected.
Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight as the burners reflected off the nearby debris, but for the briefest moment, and for the first time in the years he had been coming to this spot, Reckless saw a Phantom Flyer pilot clearly through the cockpit canopy. He had never had that opportunity before. More surprising still, the pilot of the Spectre was young, perhaps his same age, certainly not the steely-eyed veteran he had expected to see.
Dressed all in black leathers, he saw a young woman’s face within a helmet emblazoned with the fangs of a striking serpent. While her demeanor was focused, she also looked surprisingly relaxed and in complete command of the difficult maneuver, controlling her ship casually with just one hand.
As the craft roared past, the pilot of the Spectre stole a quick glance his way, and for an instant he was sure that they made eye contact. His heart hammered in his chest. Suddenly, these night-time racers took on a whole new meaning for him. They were not just lifeless vehicles roaring around the wastelands, these were real ships piloted by real people. People very much like him.
His quick glimpse of the Spectre was swallowed again by the darkness as the pilot completed her turn and roared off into the fields. Reckless felt his hair blow back as the afterburners sent a hot wind in their wake. As quickly as the Spectre had approached, she was gone, the light and the echoes of the thunderous sound quickly fading.
In moments, Reckless was left alone in the silent darkness, feeling much happier than he had in years.
