Young Writers Society

"Captain, the shield is down and we've been hit on the left flank," one of the soldiers cried nervously. He was too young to have seen many battles, and was understandably concerned for his life. 

"Take it easy on the swerving there, boys," Captain James MacKinley called to the pilots.To try and avoid the flying debris and various types of cannonballs customized for outer space, a common technique used by pilots was called swerving. Oftentimes, it was effective but came at the cost of some motion sickness for even the strongest of stomachs.It was certainly a far cry from the old-fashioned land wars, which highlighted the limits of the human body before it would collapse. Battleships were much better to fight in, as they were custom-made for the specific purpose of enduring battles with heavy armor and powerful machines. He would take a fight any day in his battleship, [i] Rhys [/i]. Named after his infant daughter, he was sure that he could brave the fiercest storm and fight the strongest enemy in this beauty. He had yet to lose, and this piece of junk wrongly christened a ship stood no chance against him. Fired up by his mental pep talk, MacKinley retreated to his own position at the swivel guns.

"Yes, sir, Captain MacKinley!" the pilot shouted back. Captain MacKinley smiled in pride at the army he had assembled before brushing off his uniform and sitting down in the firing seat. He maneuvered one large cannon out the front, peering out the grimy windshield. Shaking his head at his human limits, in this instance the shortcomings of the eyes, he pressed his forehead up to binoculars and took a good look at the ship in the back. It was definitely a Foreman 383, a pitch-black spaceship with an emphasis on revolving guns so it could pummel its opponents from all angles. Named after Jim Foreman, a human mechanic who pioneered the art of all-angles attacks. The 383 was just more circular and heavily armored, hard to penetrate except for one spot- the gas tank. 

With that, his strategy was formulated. All he had to do was lock on that sweet spot and then be greeted by the welcome sight of an exploded enemy ship, another opponent vanquished for the glory of the great republic of Pareli. He immediately blocked out all distractions- the chaos of the ship, the loud explosions echoing to his left and right, and the shrapnel occasionally interfering with his vision. Eventually, the red circle marking his aim was completely encompassing the small indent where one piece of thick iron could detonate the entire ship. "Here goes," he muttered to himself. He squeezed the trigger and watched the iron ball fly forward. Holding his breath, he reloaded just in case his shot was off.

Just as the cannonball, or more technically dent ball, was about to make contact, by some stroke of luck or a careless jerk of the wheel, the ship lurched forward. The cannonball smashed just slightly to the side. MacKinley cursed, and then snapped at his nearby pilots, "Move me closer! Don't just be a sitting duck there, you potbrains!" 

Each pilot snapped to attention, clearly startled by the change in MacKinley's behavior. As inexperienced as they were, it should be obvious to all that MacKinley was not really angry at their lack of movement but really frustrated at how hard this battle was turning out to be and simply finding an outlet. This theory was also proven by the vein bulging in MacKinley's expanse of a forehead and the discoloration of his entire face, his anger turning it pink with effort. The Foreman-383 had also changed positions, so the ships were circling each other like two jungle predators about to pounce. They had completely swapped positions. MacKinley sighed and massaged his temples. 

"Let's try a forward lurch and then using that meteor nearby as cover," he instructed one of the head pilots. This one was the veteran, a trooper of every battle MacKinley had ever fought and many more. 

"But sir, if we hide behind a meteor, just one shot from those guns that makes even the slightest contact with the meteor will be enough to blow us to smithereens," another protested. 

As much as he hated to admit it, MacKinley knew he was right. "Fine then," he grunted. "Try a forward lurch and then quickly swoop up a little bit below and to the left. I have an idea. I'll need everybody at their positions, please. Try to avoid any debris, and wait until my instructions to train on the gas tank. Then position your guns and get ready to fire at my command" 

The few side conversations abruptly ceased as he paced around the cockpit, hands behind his back. "Careful on how much pressure you put on the engine there, Scottlin. Try and keep it steady there, Andrews. Get in position, Hanne. For the last time, watch the trigger, Havely. Johnson, go tinker with the protective shield to see if we can recover from that last flank hit."

"Yes, sir." Johnson scampered out of sight, most likely to assemble his set of tools and then tinker with the shield. Satisfied with those adjustments for now, MacKinley returned to his seat. Once he was prepared to give instructions, he gave the go-ahead signal to the pilots. 

His chair lurched forward as the ship was pushed into high gear, jumping forward with a slight bump of the controls. If he didn't know better, MacKinley would've sworn that movement was a result of some careless pilot. Some other pilots took over and pulled the ship up a little underneath their ship, as graceful as a bird of prey ready to pounce. As MacKinley had predicted, his opponent rose higher and flew backwards at the same time. Due to a lack of communication between pilots, a deadly mistake for any ship to make, their Foreman 383 tilted at just enough of an angle to expose their gas tank in the panic to escape. A few guns sounded, but the cannonballs flew well wide of their ship. 

"Everyone aim for the gas tank!" MacKinley shouted to his crew. His only response was the click of guns locking on a target and the swivel of the freely movable launchers. His crew was much to experienced to waste time with the petty nuisance of speech. Once he was confident everyone was locked on the right target, he shouted out. "Fire!" 

A dozen loud pops sounded throughout the cockpit, and a wisp of smoke rose from everyone's gun. MacKinley watched the dent balls soar through the sky. In a wild frenzy, the 383 tried to outmaneuver them, but it was too late. Several dent balls connected with the target. In an explosion of green smoke and flying corpses, the 383 was no more. 

With one voice, everyone in the cockpit broke into cheers. High fives were exchanged, congratulations were shared, and his sweaty crew relaxed every tense muscle as their stress evaporated with the gas fumes. The bonds formed through risk and triumph was unbreakable, and after just a few battles, all of them were as close as brothers.

MacKinley held up his hands for silence, and the overexcited soldiers quieted remarkably quickly. "Thank you," he acknowledged. There was only a silent nod from some in response, so he continued. "Men, you have brought glory to me, your homeland, this ship, and yourselves today. Foreman 383s are not easy planes to face, and we had a couple of close calls. But I was never worried. This gang can take anything, and we have yet to lose out of the 17 battles we've fought! As we celebrate tonight and then prepare to fight again tomorrow, remember from which you came and what you fight for. We will bring justice to the system by securing a victory through whatever means necessary for Pareli! Down with Jannet!"

The men started the usual chant- "Up with Pareli! Down with Jannet! Up with Pareli! Down with Jannet! Up with Pareli!" 

Captain MacKinley excused himself in the excitement and retired to his own dorm. It was a small cubicle-like cell, but he had everything he needed in this room- an emergency stash of energy bars and liquid vitamins, a spare uniform, and a trunk of his possessions. It was amazing how every material thing of value he possessed could fit into just one trunk. He knelt on the floor next to the trunk and rummaged through, in search of one thing that made life worth living. 

He pulled out a framed picture of his wife and baby. His wife was smiling, but her eyes held a look of sadness and worry- a look of stress beyond her years. He knew she constantly was fretting about him, and for good reason- he did risk his life on a regular basis. The baby, Rhys, was smiling at the camera. It was rare for babies to smile, but Rhys seemed to always be a ray of sunshine to liven up everyone's day. There was something about her that made her different than any other infant. Her desire to not just live but relish in every moment of life was contagious, and gave MacKinley the strongest pulses of homesickness imaginable. He loved both of them with all his heart, and couldn't bear the thought of never returning. 

With the thoughts of home came the hypotheticals. He wished that every memory of when times were better didn't have to be accompanied by the painful reminder that he might not live to make more. He had won 17 without a single loss. It felt like wars were ticking time bombs, ready to blow up in even the most experienced captain's hands just when they thought they had tamed it. It was a mere matter of time before it was his time to return to his family in a casket. 

The ship rocked, and the Captain sunk down onto his bed, holding his head in his hands. He missed them so much, enough so that he sometimes wished he could just quit and fly back to see them. Maybe this work wasn't for him. He had originally been a merchant and had been quite happy- the money and beautiful women sold it for him. That was where he had met his wife, after all. It was much more stable than the fickle art of war, and he could see the beauty of the galaxy while earning substantial money. He was one of the few merchants that had a strict code of honor that included no lawbreaking, and as such he was certain to almost never be in danger through his job. If you have no enemies, there can be no war. He was tempted, for the briefest moment, to give up on this war and leave the governments to sort it out so he could make those dreams a reality. 

But he couldn't abandon his crew now. Almost all of them had a family that they were sacrificing for their country. If they could do it, it should be no problem for him. But it was a problem. He wrestled with it every waking minute, regardless of loss or victory. Every time a shot whizzed by their spaceship during a battle, he feared that the next shot would find its target. He was afraid that he would never see his wife and children again, that he wouldn't live through this. In a way, he was afraid of death. 

He stood and started to pace. His second-guessing had never been as bad as this. He was a natural leader, but his thoughts seemed to escape his grasp. He could never control them, and it got worse when there were no battles to distract him. Without a doubt, he was intellectually and physically prepared for this job. The mental and spiritual part was his worst enemy, worse than the missiles that threatened his safety. This challenged his well-being and very sanity, and he could not train them like he could his body. Every thought was more dangerous than any number of conditions. The turmoil inside was often painful, and MacKinley knew that it wouldn't be long until he crumbled under the pressure. 

He grabbed the picture and held it up, hands shaking. "I will come back for you, Rhys. I will," he whispered. "That's a promise. I WILL come back!" 

With that, he dropped the picture and started to sob freely.