Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Nighteyes I, Part 3

Townies hustled behind the cafeteria counters, preparing the Wing's breakfast. The smell of gravy, so strong even a pilot could detect it, filled her nose and made her mouth water. She, Cliffdiver, and Quickfingers watched the tables as they ate. Mountainheart, while fumbling with a pencil sharpener, let some hastily-ripped pages from the Wing handbook fall from his sleeve. Night appreciated his initiative.

Steelweaver came up to her as soon as the exam ended. "Longroad, Bloodhunter, and Cloudreacher got all their answers from their wyverns. Longroad had Soland google answers for him!"

Night raised an eyebrow. "Soland got a media station to himself? Impressive." There were only a few in the den, and as the beta male of the Sixth Cohort, he fell pretty low on the hierarchy.

"It's against the rules, ma'am!"

What fucking rules? We've never done this before. "You're connected to two brains and bodies. An officer needs to use both. It's up to you and Taiv to set the rules for your partnership. Not us."

Steel saluted and left, barely hiding a scowl.

While the other pilots ate, the officers clustered around their private table to grade the exams. "It's roll, pitch, and yaw, idiots," Quickfingers muttered. "The part of the saddle at the front of the seat is a horn, not a dick crusher. I put that option in as a joke."

"Could be worse." Night held up Windchaser's test. She'd bubbled the circles in the shape of a penis.

"Are you actually considering her?" Cliffdiver asked.

Night pictured it: Windchaser, tall and proud, smiling for real instead of just smiling sarcastically. "No. She's not mature enough yet." Night rubbed her eyes, feeling some frantic energy drain away from her. "I want to put her through this round to see what she's capable of."

"Good." Cliffdiver opened the next exam. "Longroad only answered half the questions."

Night shrugged. "Takes Soland forever to type."

The grading took the rest of Friday morning. By lunch, her body ached from sitting still too long. Repeated arguments spun around her head: no, I don't care if Hopeender outscored them all, he's too inexperienced. The Cuban-American pilot was too new a factor for Night to predict how well he'd take orders in a life-or-death scenario. She convinced the other officers to stick with the more experienced pilots, and many of those had done well enough to qualify: Cloudreacher, Steelweaver, Bearpaw, Wallclimber, Pinebreaker, Spikedancer, and Rockcleaver. Night jotted Windchaser's name with the rest and taped the list to the edge of the table, where everyone could see.

Cheers and curses rose. Steel pumped his fist. Windchaser rolled her eyes at him. Margot, jammed in at the end of their table, looked relieved not to see her name.

"An hour of free time, soldiers, and then back to the training floor!" she announced. "Time everyone learned to run!" They grumbled as they dispersed, tossing trays onto racks and drifting toward the stairwell. Night smiled.

"You'll never guess who texted me," Quickfingers muttered behind her. "Seamus. Twice."

"Still begging to get back together?" Night asked, stretching her arms.

"No. Dr. Harper demoted him and put Borghild in his place."

Night stiffened. "If she's already put her henchwoman in charge of the seccies—"

"She can't promote an unconscious guy. Relax. We have time. Up for some bowling?" Quickfingers and Cliffdiver loved commandeering the common room's television for Wii Sports.

She shook her head. "Training."

"Even when I was on the Olympic rifle team, I didn't train as much as you do." He narrowed his eyes. "You need to take more easy days. Before you hurt yourself."