Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Michael II, Part 2

The third floor of the Eyrie was identical in layout to the second, and just as cluttered. Room eleven, he thought, following the hallway, which hooked like a horseshoe. A young pilot with tangled blond hair leant against the wall, jotting something down on a tablet. "Hey, newbie," he called. "Listen, the arch commander's pretty controlling. You need anything, you come to me." Michael didn't make eye contact.

Room eleven lay halfway around the horseshoe. He curled his right hand into a fist, marveled for a second at how the new fingers fit together, and knocked.

"Swipe yourself in!" Steel shouted from behind the door.

Michael grimaced. Hadn't Night just told him to keep his eyes open for Steel? And now she's assigned me to his room? What is she doing? Steel had seemed friendly enough back on the plane, before Michael had known what he was. Steel. Not even a last name. Don't be a fucking coward, Boorley. He swung the metal cuff with the comm in it over the access pad, and tried not to wonder how he could take the cuff off.

Room eleven was wide enough, with two twin-sized cots pushed against opposite walls and a TV sitting atop a mini fridge. A panel above a hole in the wall read 'Laundry Chute.' Steel was lying in bed, holding a book called 'Fine Mesh Mechanics' in one hand and spinning a sheathed hunting knife in another.

"Arch Commander said to expect you," Steel said. "Need someone to hold your hand? Or can the almighty goddamn badass pilot of the Alpha figure out how to pull on his own uniform pants?" He pointed his knife under the other bed. "Your kit."

It's not like I'm dressed like this for the hell of it. He didn't want to think about who had done the dressing. The kit rolled out easily. Inside lay three more sets of the tight, scaled shirts and leggings, three pairs of white cargo pants, along with socks, underwear, and an extra pair of boots. A toothbrust and tube of paste looked strange next to a book labeled 'First Wing: Recruit's Handbook.' There was a face masks, goggles, a pair of thin gloves, a belt with a holster attached, a sheathed knife, a handgun, and three boxes of bullets.

Touching the gun made him feel more relaxed than he had since landing in Anchorage. He pulled the pants on over his leggings, slid the black nylon belt through the loops, and hooked on the weapons.

"Slide the gloves and face mask in your pockets," Steel advised. "We've got an hour until afternoon training starts. If I were you, I'd use that time to read the handbook. Comm charger's on the wall. Use the lip on the top of the cuff to pop it out."

"Thanks." You're a regular Boy Scout, helping an old man like me. Michael checked his comm, but the battery icon was bright green with a lightning bolt through the center. With a shrug, he grabbed the handbook and settled down to read. Steel gave him some tasteless protein bars, which settled strangely in his empty stomach. At a quarter to two, Steel's comm beeped to summon them upstairs.

As they left the room, Michael noticed that Steel had taped photos of himself with the pink-hair woman to the wall. "Is that your girlfriend?"

"Windy? Yeah. She's the best damn person in this whole fucking fortress. Say one bad thing about her and I'll shoot off your dick."

Michael, who'd said similar things about girls he'd dated in his twenties, didn't respond.

"Do you have any questions about the handbook?" Steel asked. "I was an engineer before I transferred. I know everything about HQ."

Michael nodded, but kept his mouth shut. He doubted Steel would give an honest estimate when asked how long until someone or something killed him

The other pilots waited in two lines in the middle of the track.