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My head hurts. Not like that was something new.
Sure, it usually was just the byproduct of my Number-Form Synesthesia, the fact that I had numbers floating and whirling around my field of vision at any given time.
All throughout the day they would twist and turn in tandem with whatever I was doing, perceiving and calculating.
Their values would fall and rise, changing their colors in specific patterns correlating to them.
Sometimes I felt like the numbers were dancing the choreography of my life, in a never-ending performance of colors, light and movement only I was privy to.
Converting and replacing until it was like watching a time-laps recording of the most colorful night sky in existence.
Beautiful.
Breathtaking.
And extremely distracting.
It was a struggle I faced all my life, costing me quite a few relationships and hours spent calculating.
Like the number of tiles in the school district instead of listening to my grammar teacher or the acceleration times, all kinds of Fighter Ships in different circumstances would need, instead of paying attention to our Flight instructor.
Pointless waste of time, my father would call it, and I would have agreed.
Useless, except for right now, being a sitting duck in a TX Space Shuttle with nothing but an attached RX-P/T Fighter Ship, 7 other cadets and a possibly dead, but definitely unconscious pilot and co-pilot.
To make matters worse, 6 of the other cadets are under 12, it was after all just supposed to be a Shuttle excursion around Janus’s moon to get them an impression of space-fare.
My classmate Cyra, 17 like me, was included to gain experience in flying before she went on to study being a Pilot on Academy in contrast to me, whose presents in the “kiddy shuttle” of another Military school was most definitely punishment for the marker incident last week.
I idly wondered, while trying to get the children’s whirling red numbers that presented their frantic breathing patterns under control, if Ground Combat instructor Major Gaston would have found it punishment enough.
When I finally succeeded in changing their warning amber values to a hesitantly stable honey-olive mix, I concluded that it probably depended as much on my survival as that of her color bombed skintight’s.
I ripped myself from the depressingly dark mahogany color of those chances.
In the cockpit, I could still hear Cyra altering between hailing Ground Control of Janus or Military Distress Channel with mounting desperation.
“This is TX Shuttle Janus 2, abort attack I repeat abort attack. We are just a cadet excursion from Military base Janus. Does anybody hear me?”
They didn’t answer once in the time since the first missile impact had taken out Captain Kest and Captain Par Tares.
And they wouldn’t answer now.
I’d give it an 86 percent chance they jammed our frequency, with possibly only our distress signal getting through.
It’s a school shuttle after all, not like that would be hard to achieve for people that managed to get an FX8.9 Artillery Strike Fighter like the one attacking us. Third fastest in the entire bracket.
The Captains had no chance once the Fighter turned up.
Like we had none.
The only reason we made it this far was either it had reload issues, below 22 percent chance on that, or they wanted our fear and panic.
That would actually make a lot of sense, I thought detachedly, as I unbuckled my seatbelt and slowly made my way towards the hatch linking the shuttle and the RX-P/T Fighter we were supposed to deliver.
Blocking only incoming funk was a bit harder than just jamming all transmission, but not by much.
I could do it with enough planning and time, and an attack on a so obviously Military Cadet transport could only be deliberate.
They would want us to desperately hail control, make them scrabble to save us. Only to listen helplessly when we were shot to space junk.
I had managed to heave myself inside the fighter's cockpit and started the pre-flight checklist when I opened a channel to Military Control myself.
‘Control this is Cadet Dracia Tell Dramis on Fighter RX-P/T aboard Military School Shuttle Janus 2, do you copy?’
Only silence greeted me, as even Cyra fell momentarily quiet.
That never lasted long with her and predictably-
“Dracia what are you doing?”
“The enemy fighter is jamming any signal we are sending and the closest base on Janus’s Moon will not be able to send help in time.
Even if they started sending Fighters 5 minutes and 51 seconds after first contact, the military prime response time, they would still take nearly 14 minutes to reach us.”
I could practically feel the despair wafting off her, but she would not be Cyra if that would stop her.
“That does not answer my question Cadet Tell Dramis.”
I predicted that answer with a glowing marigold colored 93 percent accuracy. That, despite everything, coaxed a smile out of me.
“It means, Senior Cadet Ashcroft, that we will get shot to bits by their last two missiles in approximately 7 minutes and 30 seconds.
Estimated by the time needed to hit us and safely retreat through the Janus Station Portal before the Crisis Response reaches us.
I spare you the numbers but suffice to say we have no chance in reaching the Portal ourselves even if we throw all but life support out to reach maximum speed.
A shuttle like ours just doesn’t have that kind of power.”
The Pre-Flight diagnostics were done now and so almost was our grace period.
My window came up and I was running out of time to explain.
“So you leave us to rot and save yourself”, there was true venom in her voice that actually hit me.
Always good to know people's opinions about oneself, I guess.
“No, this RX-P fighter packs the speed to be categorized as a Priority target”, the mentioned fighter beneath me now went from softly humming to detachment countdown, “There are only two types of missiles compatible with our attacker’s ship.
One of which has such a previously mentioned priority system that full-automatically calculates and focuses destruction on the biggest perceived threat.
The first shot we were hit by was exactly that model and you cannot mix load a PR Series Attacker like the one on our tail.”
I paused for a moment, trying to work out why my left controls linked to my right display, before simply accepting I had no idea and continued,
“So, what I’ll do is launch this fighter, loop far enough around the enemy to seem like I'm fleeing and simultaneously build up speed for the missiles to classify me as a Priority target.
The moment I cross straight through the gap between you and our pursuers, the missiles latch on to me instead.
I out speed them and you reach Janus Moon Base safely.”
“That’s nuking insane Dracia!”
Look at that, the legendary stiff Cyra Ashcroft could swear, and all it took was being minutes out of missile reach.
“No, this is the most likely successful course of action with the lowest number of fatalities.”
Probably.
My faith was in my numbers, not so much my abilities. I had logged long hours of flight simulation and did quite a few real ones in a true Fighter.
Hard not to with a star pilot brother and an overachieving father breathing down my neck.
Still, this was far from the calm flights where I had my patient brother on the passenger seat or only a commlink away.
No matter, there’s a 78% chance the shuttle would make it, compared to the deep fuzzy stasis field black that represented our other chances.
I had the power of numbers behind me, and the fear of Thetis inside to motivate me.
“What do you need me to do”, came Cyras' calm voice from the commlink and cemented herself firmly again as the most competent Cadet on the entire Zeus Military Base.
“The moment I detach you put full power on the front engines.
Order of sequence is - Enemy Missile launch, I detach, you hit full speed.
"Copy that?”
“Copy that Fighter Pilot”, Cry managed to answer.
Almost simultaneously, the heat detector of my fighter shrieked and I didn’t need the view of the enemy fighter to know he was seconds from launching his final offense.
Not yet, I thought as the numbers that marked the world around me from the day I was born turned from lemon to amber.
Not yet, I thought, as the brilliant sunset of values rushed downward in breakneck speed.
Until finally stale blood bled into ink and I knew-
Now.
I had no time to think, as soon as I hit zero and the other numbers surged up the enemy shot his missiles, milliseconds after I launched myself from the shuttle.
The world around me turned as the acceleration pressed me into my seat and I executed the arching loop I saw so beautifully translated by numbers in front of me.
Just as suddenly, my stomach dropped out from under me and I finally had the visual of the enemy craft.
Fatal missiles were reaching like deadly hands in front of it, while Cyra was getting all she could out of the shuttle and losing alarmingly fast.
I could not accelerate more.
I had calculated it, my Go/No-go point, down to the last emerald tinged decimal.
If I picked up even more speed, I risk not just over shooting but hitting the others as well.
Any deviation from my flight path could mean I'll miss completely, hit the missiles and catch us all in the explosion or not be fast enough to turn them towards me.
All that, and even if I made it, any chance the Rescue would make it before I hit some debris or other interference, very possible at this kind of speed, lose control or…
NO!
I did not have time for fluctuating numbers spiralling my head down into the abyss.
I did my math, did all preparations I could possibly do from the moment our pilots went out of commission and now there was no time for doubt.
Almost there. The Shuttle heck became bigger and bigger in my sight.
Almost there. I had not thought of the deafening noise the proximity alarms would make.
Almost there. I was so close, the nuking fighter bounced with the interfering forces.
And just like that I speed downwards, exactly through the opening between missiles and shuttle, just big enough for me to pass.
The projectiles a fiery tail behind me.
For one brilliant moment my numbers burnt golden with victorious all encompassing joy.
Just to come crashing down as the full realization hit me.
I had two Mark 6 Missiles on my ass and the fastest possible help was still 5 minutes and 36 seconds out.
I was dead nuking meat, I thought, before I didn’t even have time for that.
All I could do was fly one evasive manoeuvre after the other, desperately trying to keep from being shot to bits, whilst avoiding the countless obstacles and any close proximity that could endanger others.
There was no time to even actively calculate, I had to blindly trust the numbers rushing before my eyes, cataloguing and evaluating the colours in front of me as I had done all my life.
I could not tell you how much time passed.
Infinity in numbers is the best I could give you, before one particular sensor shot alive, signalling the arrival of the Threat Response Fighters of the Military Base Janus.
Full armed with anti-missile artillery
They were here.
I did it.
And just like that my focus slipped.
My colours bleed from mahogany to full on ink, I reacted a fraction of a second too late.
My left flank got hit strong enough to get me spinning to the right.
I heard something crack, my impact suit got triggered and all numbers vanished along with my sight.
Later I would learn that Janus Military Control had heard the entire radio sequence of our desperate hailing for help, as well as all communication inside the shuttle.
Like me, speaking in a most disturbingly calm voice as I outlined my plan.
On top of that, they watched the full video of my launch, flight execution and finally the subsequent hit by interfering debris.
The Response Team had launched 4 minutes and 49 seconds after our First Emergency Message, beating my estimation and their own record by just over a minute.
Their daring flight manoeuvre to stabilize my course and catch me was, in my opinion, a lot more impressive than anything I had hobbled together.
I had managed to get multiple broken bones and hairline fractures on my left side, extensive bruising of tissue, a crushed lung and a bad enough concussion.
As a result I spent over 36 whopping hours in a regrowth tank.
The Cadet Shuttle was landed safely by Senior Cadet Cyra Ashcroft.
No further injuries, in fact, they managed to regain contact with the Military not long after they were out of the danger zone but did not dare contact me in fear of it leading to distraction.
Which, fair enough, was exactly what happened.
Still, none of that entire insane scenario was more unlikely than what happened after I first regained consciousness.
My pater, General Tell Dramis, was at my bedside looking worse for wear than I had ever seen him.
“Father?” was all I could croak out.
Turned out it didn’t need more.
He immediately whipped around to me and with the most careful hands cradelt the right side of my face.
“I am here. Everyone made it. I am proud of you.”
Not in a Million years, would I have calculated anything but a negligible likelihood of my father admitting that to me.