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Description
WELCOME ABOARD

I must have blacked out, because I don't recall having voluntarily walked to the infirmary. I feel like I've been trodden on by a Prospector, but everything seems to function normally... I'm bandaged up, but no need for slings or crutches, it would seem. It could be the morning after my last Atlas leave... My head hurts, my mouth is dryer than ever and all my joints feel like they're coated with rust.

I slowly get up to assess the damage. The pain's dulled by the remaining traces of anesthetic agent in my system, but it would be manageable even without. Lucky, lucky me. Swinging my legs off the bunk, I stand up and make my way to the door, catching a view of my face in the mirror. They've left most of it free of bandages, and I can see I've got a nasty scar that runs vertically from my right eyebrow to my lower lip, probably the result of the visor's angle. No fractures or major bleedings. The man's fine, let's check on the machine... I check out of the medical sector and make my way towards the bow.

My squadron's hangar is just aft of the viewing gallery, and as I walk the hundred and fifty metres of the pressurized platform, I once again stare at the infinity of clouds below the zeppelin. Only mountaintops emerge from this faintly yellow sea, and these are the most valuable assets we have left. Vast arcologies have been built on top of Earth's various mountains. They contain the refineries, manufacturing and power production plants, as well as the last refuge of Mankind on its homeworld.

As I get to the fire doors that bar the access to the hangar, fragments of conversation reach me. Seems King Monkey (the Maintenance Chief, named after the Grease Monkeys, the mechanics' nickname) has ordered the relocation of my fighter, and I arrive just in time to see it lifted by the crane. Shock horror.

The ADM Consortium Mirage Resurrection 2500-2, or "Two-Five" in pilot language, is in its normal state a sleek, Delta-winged monoturbine aircraft, with a V-shaped twin rudder derived from the 2200 model. It boasts a fuselage-mounted double 30mm Manhurin cannon and nine hardpoints, two for Sirocco ASRAAMs, four for Sagaie jamming pods or heavier ordnance like Borstel anti-armour guided rockets, the old Storm Shadow cruise missiles, rocket pods, etc..., two specifically for extra fuel tanks, and the central one for anti-zeppelin ordnance such as a single Air Tortoise torpedo, a one-inch railgun or a 105mm cannon. It's a very big aircraft for a fighter (Nearly fourteen metres long for ten of wingspan, with the rudders extending for about three metres but running nearly the whole length), heavy (forty-six tons) and, as demonstrated, really resistant too.

I've seen a few wrecks of the type in my time, and I have a pretty good idea of how 30mm EX rounds are effective against aircrafts, but I honestly don't know how the Mirage held as long as it did. I could fit in a few of the impacts. The engine is half dislodged from the initial shots, and shredded pipes from the coolant system leak their greenish fluid on the hangar floor. The starboard wing is bent at a 10° angle. The cracked canopy, forced open when they pulled me out of the mudpile I stare at, lies forgotten beside the launch cradle. And to top it off, the artwork, which I was quite proud of, is a goner.

-Been roughed up, have ya?"
I slowly shift my gaze from the wreck to the young mechanic that looks at me with a blend of interest and compassion. He can't be more than seventeen or eighteen, with streaks of oil and soot on his face and his exoskeleton. Dark brown hair, the shadow of what promises to be an unkempt beard and a belt laden with more types of tools than I've come across in my life complete the picture.
-Don't worry... We're going to fix this piece of tin. But doesn't look like you'll be using it for some time..." he says, examining both the fighter and the bandaged scarecrow that stands before him.
-And you are...?" I ask.
-Sorry." He salutes, noticing my rank badge for the first time. "Corporal Jeff Surdier, Sir. Colloquially called Joker, for future reference."
-How long's it going to take, you think?"
-Errr... Can't really say, Captain. But judging by the state of it... Three weeks at best, maybe more. If it's not a write-off, in which case you'll have to wait for a replacement from Atlas."

I consider the implications. Minimum three weeks without flying anything but maybe the occasionnal shuttle, if I'm in luck. And if it's a write-off, which it looks like it is, I'll have to wait for another Two-Five to arrive from the Atlas base, so at least a month, a month and a half. I'll go mad before then. Since I graduated, the longest time I spent between two flights is a week, when I got the flu so badly I couldn't put my mask on, and I was already itching so bad to get back to it that I offered the zeppelin's crew an aerobatics display when I resumed patrol duties. There's no replacement aircraft: since Corwin has been shot down, our last free Two-Five was given to Hawkes. And with me stuck on board and Shaun (Blue Five) who got killed in the last sortie, we've got eight pilots left in the squadron, plus Darren, who's still in the med centre, for seven available fighters. I need to see if I can borrow his Mirage, but it could only be temporary and I'd have to have the settings transferred from my plane to his, which takes time.

-You wouldn't know if there's any available aircrafts left on the Tigre, would you, Corporal?"
-I really don't think, Sir... Your squadron's already faring quite well compared to others, and replacements aren't readily available. If you're really wanting to fly that badly, you could always ask Officer Moreau to let you take a Prospector down, but I don't know if there's a ground drop anytime soon."
-Anything else? And I really mean, anything."
-Back at base, I heard something about the Rapace team needing a pilot a while ago, but seems they'd found one by the time I left Atlas. So no, nothing, really... Sorry, Captain."

I thank Joker and start to head back, towards Moreau's offices. He's in charge of the ground operations, and if he needs a volunteer to fly a Prospector or a Scavenger team down below... I'll be his man. Ground shuttles are usually only crewed by volunteers from the Operational Reserve, squadrons but any pilot with a little bit of experience does the job. Out of a tacit agreement, ground shuttles are left alone by both sides, as they are used for medical duties and Prospector ferrying, so no need for real combat experience. But I'll see what he's got in store for me.

As I pass the blast doors giving access to the shuttle bay, I feel the temperature dropping sharply. A shuttle must have docked, and the loading doors are open to allow the zeppelin's grapples to extract the unrefined ores or salvaged materials from its hold. I turn the last corner leading to the Colonel's office... And crash into a true storm of loose armor pieces, long black hair and weaponry. Thrown against the wall, a bit dazed, I count a few more bruises to add to my already extensive collection.
-You OK there?" A voice calls.
-I suppose so..."
-God, sorry about this... I... Errr... Sorry!" apologises the green-eyed girl that just rammed me in the wall. I'd give her twenty-three, twenty-four years at most... Rare to see anyone that young in the Scavenger teams, but her armor shows she's a new recruit from their branch. And cute, with that...
-So sorry... I'm late for my briefing, got to dash!" She helps me back up, flashes a smile in my general direction and runs off in the corridor.
-Quite something, isn't she?" calls Colonel Moreau from his doorstep. "I sometimes wish she wasn't that... energetic. You're okay, though?" he asks with genuine concern. His hair, getting gray on the temples, remains jet-black everywhere else. He's one of the eldest members of the Tigre's crew, and probably the one with the most groundside experience, which could well explain his current position.

As he guides me into his office, overlooking the shuttle loading bay, I try to explain my problem to him. Yes, he has a shuttle ready to go, and yes, he can put me in the co-pilot's seat for that one, because the volunteer retracted at the last moment. It's to get a salvage team down near the ruins of Alexandria, to pick up "a very special cargo". I know him better than to ask what it is... But the Tigre has been tasked to retrieve it, and thanks to it I'm going to fly, so I don't need to know anything else to be happy. He also arranges to have my plane's settings transferred to Darren's Two-Five so I can sortie whenever I'll be cleared to. My bandages don't prevent me from using an armor, so I'll be able to come out of the shuttle with the Scavengers as well. With a careful pat on the shoulder and a few words of encouragement, he sends me on my way to the shuttles' changing room.

Finding myself an armor isn't really a problem, but, the second I try the helmet on, the scar, still fresh, burns like napalm on naked skin. I need to put on a thin patch of gel to stop it from rubbing against the helmet's padding. Even so, I think I'll keep it off until I need to fasten it as we go through the clouds. I walk past the Scavengers on the way, in their briefing room. They're a fifteen-strong team, all helmeted and equipped with weapons they've picked up in their looting of military bases around the world: It ranges from ancient M4A5 carbines and Cheytac anti-personnel sniper rifles to prototype anti-tank railguns, and even a confined plasma bazooka, a piece of kit that I'd only heard rumors about. Strange to see them kitted like that, though: under the clouds, we know that no life subsists beyond some acid-tolerant bacteries.

Looks like we're in for a walk in the park... As I drop down the ejection hatch and slump into the co-pilot's seat, I notice an audio OSD sticking out of its player... I push it back in, and the notes of Toto Cutugno's "Sei Qui" fill the cockpit and the troop bay. I feel like rolling down the window, putting my elbow out and keeping just one hand on the wheel, my hair in the wind... But the "window" is a triple-thickness fixed panel of Plexiglas, the "wheel" is composed of about three dozen levers, buttons and a joystick that REQUIRE both hands and feet, and the wind could well become toxic... So I'll refrain from doing so.

I'm Wellman's co-pilot today. I already flew an escort flight with him, but Flight Lieutenant Samuel "Ash" Wellman, thirty-seven years old and a few commendations, is a well-known figure aboard the Tigre, as a former navigation officer. Our mechanic/radio should be Johannes Escher, the German guy who got transferred here three weeks ago, but he's being replaced by a C-SAR sergeant I don't know at the last moment, "for undisclosed but medical-related reasons". OK. He's hungover, at four in the afternoon, ship time. Better having someone else, then... That C-SAR guy is normally a winch operator, but he's in training to become a comms NCO too, so that'll be good practice for him.

He drops from the hatch directly in his seat, and I immediately start up the engines. As I finish the pre-flight checks (aided by Ash as I haven't "shuttled" in a while), I throw a cursory glance at him. He somehow looks older than I'd expected him to be, around thirty, with a receding hairline and a short but deep scar on the bald part of his skull. He already seems to know Ash, who calls him "Duffy". So, Duffy it will be.

The leader of the Scavengers radioes in from the troop bay: Their team is harnessed and ready to go. As the senior officer on board, I take a minute to greet them:
-Welcome aboard, guys, I'm Captain Engels and I'll be your co-pilot this afternoon, in the cockpit with me, Flight Lieutenant Wellman and..."
-Barton. Rufus Barton."
-And Sergeant Barton, who will be pleased to answer any of your needs. Please now ensure that your armrests are down, your tray table is upright, and remember that the air sickness bags are located in the seatback in front of you."
A chorus of "Cheers!" and "Yes, Captain!" replies, along with more muted comments on my sense of humour and where I could put it. I signal launch control that we're ready to go, and, just as the music track finishes, the clamps are released. We drop the fifty metres necessary to clear the zeppelin's defence perimeter, and bring the thruster nozzles back in their horizontal stance. I select another track, and it's to the sound of The Who's "My Generation" that we speed in the only direction I usually avoid: downwards.

Description
WELCOME ABOARD

I must have blacked out, because I don't recall having voluntarily walked to the infirmary. I feel like I've been trodden on by a Prospector, but everything seems to function normally... I'm bandaged up, but no need for slings or crutches, it would seem. It could be the morning after my last Atlas leave... My head hurts, my mouth is dryer than ever and all my joints feel like they're coated with rust.

I slowly get up to assess the damage. The pain's dulled by the remaining traces of anesthetic agent in my system, but it would be manageable even without. Lucky, lucky me. Swinging my legs off the bunk, I stand up and make my way to the door, catching a view of my face in the mirror. They've left most of it free of bandages, and I can see I've got a nasty scar that runs vertically from my right eyebrow to my lower lip, probably the result of the visor's angle. No fractures or major bleedings. The man's fine, let's check on the machine... I check out of the medical sector and make my way towards the bow.

My squadron's hangar is just aft of the viewing gallery, and as I walk the hundred and fifty metres of the pressurized platform, I once again stare at the infinity of clouds below the zeppelin. Only mountaintops emerge from this faintly yellow sea, and these are the most valuable assets we have left. Vast arcologies have been built on top of Earth's various mountains. They contain the refineries, manufacturing and power production plants, as well as the last refuge of Mankind on its homeworld.

As I get to the fire doors that bar the access to the hangar, fragments of conversation reach me. Seems King Monkey (the Maintenance Chief, named after the Grease Monkeys, the mechanics' nickname) has ordered the relocation of my fighter, and I arrive just in time to see it lifted by the crane. Shock horror.

The ADM Consortium Mirage Resurrection 2500-2, or "Two-Five" in pilot language, is in its normal state a sleek, Delta-winged monoturbine aircraft, with a V-shaped twin rudder derived from the 2200 model. It boasts a fuselage-mounted double 30mm Manhurin cannon and nine hardpoints, two for Sirocco ASRAAMs, four for Sagaie jamming pods or heavier ordnance like Borstel anti-armour guided rockets, the old Storm Shadow cruise missiles, rocket pods, etc..., two specifically for extra fuel tanks, and the central one for anti-zeppelin ordnance such as a single Air Tortoise torpedo, a one-inch railgun or a 105mm cannon. It's a very big aircraft for a fighter (Nearly fourteen metres long for ten of wingspan, with the rudders extending for about three metres but running nearly the whole length), heavy (forty-six tons) and, as demonstrated, really resistant too.

I've seen a few wrecks of the type in my time, and I have a pretty good idea of how 30mm EX rounds are effective against aircrafts, but I honestly don't know how the Mirage held as long as it did. I could fit in a few of the impacts. The engine is half dislodged from the initial shots, and shredded pipes from the coolant system leak their greenish fluid on the hangar floor. The starboard wing is bent at a 10° angle. The cracked canopy, forced open when they pulled me out of the mudpile I stare at, lies forgotten beside the launch cradle. And to top it off, the artwork, which I was quite proud of, is a goner.

-Been roughed up, have ya?"
I slowly shift my gaze from the wreck to the young mechanic that looks at me with a blend of interest and compassion. He can't be more than seventeen or eighteen, with streaks of oil and soot on his face and his exoskeleton. Dark brown hair, the shadow of what promises to be an unkempt beard and a belt laden with more types of tools than I've come across in my life complete the picture.
-Don't worry... We're going to fix this piece of tin. But doesn't look like you'll be using it for some time..." he says, examining both the fighter and the bandaged scarecrow that stands before him.
-And you are...?" I ask.
-Sorry." He salutes, noticing my rank badge for the first time. "Corporal Jeff Surdier, Sir. Colloquially called Joker, for future reference."
-How long's it going to take, you think?"
-Errr... Can't really say, Captain. But judging by the state of it... Three weeks at best, maybe more. If it's not a write-off, in which case you'll have to wait for a replacement from Atlas."

I consider the implications. Minimum three weeks without flying anything but maybe the occasionnal shuttle, if I'm in luck. And if it's a write-off, which it looks like it is, I'll have to wait for another Two-Five to arrive from the Atlas base, so at least a month, a month and a half. I'll go mad before then. Since I graduated, the longest time I spent between two flights is a week, when I got the flu so badly I couldn't put my mask on, and I was already itching so bad to get back to it that I offered the zeppelin's crew an aerobatics display when I resumed patrol duties. There's no replacement aircraft: since Corwin has been shot down, our last free Two-Five was given to Hawkes. And with me stuck on board and Shaun (Blue Five) who got killed in the last sortie, we've got eight pilots left in the squadron, plus Darren, who's still in the med centre, for seven available fighters. I need to see if I can borrow his Mirage, but it could only be temporary and I'd have to have the settings transferred from my plane to his, which takes time.

-You wouldn't know if there's any available aircrafts left on the Tigre, would you, Corporal?"
-I really don't think, Sir... Your squadron's already faring quite well compared to others, and replacements aren't readily available. If you're really wanting to fly that badly, you could always ask Officer Moreau to let you take a Prospector down, but I don't know if there's a ground drop anytime soon."
-Anything else? And I really mean, anything."
-Back at base, I heard something about the Rapace team needing a pilot a while ago, but seems they'd found one by the time I left Atlas. So no, nothing, really... Sorry, Captain."

I thank Joker and start to head back, towards Moreau's offices. He's in charge of the ground operations, and if he needs a volunteer to fly a Prospector or a Scavenger team down below... I'll be his man. Ground shuttles are usually only crewed by volunteers from the Operational Reserve, squadrons but any pilot with a little bit of experience does the job. Out of a tacit agreement, ground shuttles are left alone by both sides, as they are used for medical duties and Prospector ferrying, so no need for real combat experience. But I'll see what he's got in store for me.

As I pass the blast doors giving access to the shuttle bay, I feel the temperature dropping sharply. A shuttle must have docked, and the loading doors are open to allow the zeppelin's grapples to extract the unrefined ores or salvaged materials from its hold. I turn the last corner leading to the Colonel's office... And crash into a true storm of loose armor pieces, long black hair and weaponry. Thrown against the wall, a bit dazed, I count a few more bruises to add to my already extensive collection.
-You OK there?" A voice calls.
-I suppose so..."
-God, sorry about this... I... Errr... Sorry!" apologises the green-eyed girl that just rammed me in the wall. I'd give her twenty-three, twenty-four years at most... Rare to see anyone that young in the Scavenger teams, but her armor shows she's a new recruit from their branch. And cute, with that...
-So sorry... I'm late for my briefing, got to dash!" She helps me back up, flashes a smile in my general direction and runs off in the corridor.
-Quite something, isn't she?" calls Colonel Moreau from his doorstep. "I sometimes wish she wasn't that... energetic. You're okay, though?" he asks with genuine concern. His hair, getting gray on the temples, remains jet-black everywhere else. He's one of the eldest members of the Tigre's crew, and probably the one with the most groundside experience, which could well explain his current position.

As he guides me into his office, overlooking the shuttle loading bay, I try to explain my problem to him. Yes, he has a shuttle ready to go, and yes, he can put me in the co-pilot's seat for that one, because the volunteer retracted at the last moment. It's to get a salvage team down near the ruins of Alexandria, to pick up "a very special cargo". I know him better than to ask what it is... But the Tigre has been tasked to retrieve it, and thanks to it I'm going to fly, so I don't need to know anything else to be happy. He also arranges to have my plane's settings transferred to Darren's Two-Five so I can sortie whenever I'll be cleared to. My bandages don't prevent me from using an armor, so I'll be able to come out of the shuttle with the Scavengers as well. With a careful pat on the shoulder and a few words of encouragement, he sends me on my way to the shuttles' changing room.

Finding myself an armor isn't really a problem, but, the second I try the helmet on, the scar, still fresh, burns like napalm on naked skin. I need to put on a thin patch of gel to stop it from rubbing against the helmet's padding. Even so, I think I'll keep it off until I need to fasten it as we go through the clouds. I walk past the Scavengers on the way, in their briefing room. They're a fifteen-strong team, all helmeted and equipped with weapons they've picked up in their looting of military bases around the world: It ranges from ancient M4A5 carbines and Cheytac anti-personnel sniper rifles to prototype anti-tank railguns, and even a confined plasma bazooka, a piece of kit that I'd only heard rumors about. Strange to see them kitted like that, though: under the clouds, we know that no life subsists beyond some acid-tolerant bacteries.

Looks like we're in for a walk in the park... As I drop down the ejection hatch and slump into the co-pilot's seat, I notice an audio OSD sticking out of its player... I push it back in, and the notes of Toto Cutugno's "Sei Qui" fill the cockpit and the troop bay. I feel like rolling down the window, putting my elbow out and keeping just one hand on the wheel, my hair in the wind... But the "window" is a triple-thickness fixed panel of Plexiglas, the "wheel" is composed of about three dozen levers, buttons and a joystick that REQUIRE both hands and feet, and the wind could well become toxic... So I'll refrain from doing so.

I'm Wellman's co-pilot today. I already flew an escort flight with him, but Flight Lieutenant Samuel "Ash" Wellman, thirty-seven years old and a few commendations, is a well-known figure aboard the Tigre, as a former navigation officer. Our mechanic/radio should be Johannes Escher, the German guy who got transferred here three weeks ago, but he's being replaced by a C-SAR sergeant I don't know at the last moment, "for undisclosed but medical-related reasons". OK. He's hungover, at four in the afternoon, ship time. Better having someone else, then... That C-SAR guy is normally a winch operator, but he's in training to become a comms NCO too, so that'll be good practice for him.

He drops from the hatch directly in his seat, and I immediately start up the engines. As I finish the pre-flight checks (aided by Ash as I haven't "shuttled" in a while), I throw a cursory glance at him. He somehow looks older than I'd expected him to be, around thirty, with a receding hairline and a short but deep scar on the bald part of his skull. He already seems to know Ash, who calls him "Duffy". So, Duffy it will be.

The leader of the Scavengers radioes in from the troop bay: Their team is harnessed and ready to go. As the senior officer on board, I take a minute to greet them:
-Welcome aboard, guys, I'm Captain Engels and I'll be your co-pilot this afternoon, in the cockpit with me, Flight Lieutenant Wellman and..."
-Barton. Rufus Barton."
-And Sergeant Barton, who will be pleased to answer any of your needs. Please now ensure that your armrests are down, your tray table is upright, and remember that the air sickness bags are located in the seatback in front of you."
A chorus of "Cheers!" and "Yes, Captain!" replies, along with more muted comments on my sense of humour and where I could put it. I signal launch control that we're ready to go, and, just as the music track finishes, the clamps are released. We drop the fifty metres necessary to clear the zeppelin's defence perimeter, and bring the thruster nozzles back in their horizontal stance. I select another track, and it's to the sound of The Who's "My Generation" that we speed in the only direction I usually avoid: downwards.