I’ve been told there is a concept in the Navy called “belt buddies.” Aircraft carriers are dangerous, very busy places. When new sailors are learning the ropes on an aircraft carrier they are assigned to physically hold on to the belt of a senior sailor so they cross the deck at the right time and in the right direction. Last Shadow draws some inspiration from this.
August 20, 2009
Prompted by: Dami
They say the expected lifespan of an atmo-jumper is just thirteen minutes from jettison. Five of that is spent in-flight, and the next fifteen minutes before extraction are the slowest hell of your life. The truth is, most casualties are the result of novice pilots having zigged when they should have zagged. They rarely make it past their first jump on their own.
A sane person might ask why anyone would voluntarily dive headfirst into almost certain suicide. Most rookies ask themselves the same question in the moments leading up to launch. Once you have made it through your first battle though, and the nerves have worn off, and you’ve had a chance to sleep, and eat, and generally distance yourself from the chaos, you start to notice it. The box has been opened. By subtle degrees it pushes its way from your subconscious. One moment you will be bull-shitting with other personnel in the mess, and then just for an instant you will have a glimpse of clarity, or more a memory of clarity. You barely catch it out of the corner of your eye, like looking through a filthy, cracked window. You have no doubt that it is there, but you can’t quite bring things into focus.
Then it is forgotten. You continue about your daily routine as if nothing ever happened. It is still there of course, biding its time, chipping away at the cracks in your mind, but for the time being it is easy not to think about it.
Slowly. Slowly it worms its way back to the surface. Maybe only once now, but then again. Soon it is growing in strength. It invades your thoughts more often. Over time it becomes a constant, nagging desire, driving you mad from the inside. If only. If only. Just when you think you can’t possibly bear this cross any longer, that’s when you get the call.
“Approaching orbit. All personnel conduct final preparations, drop scheduled at 0800 tomorrow morning universal standard time, 2570 local. Evening prayer service will be held for those wishing…” The monotone voice of a female officer broadcasts throughout the ship. Finally an end to the mental agony!
Readying your suit, and gear the nerves start up again. All the want of the previous weeks makes way for basic survival instinct. After all, what sane person would willingly put themselves in mortal danger. Lining up for the drop tubes, the adrenaline is racing. Your muscles are shaking. It’s not unheard of for the best of pilots to fall flat over, passed out in fear. It takes every ounce of willpower to step into the tube when it is your turn, but all you have left to do is pray to whatever gods you believe in. And then, nothing.
The horizon of some alien planet curves out in front of you for thousands of miles just before your suit’s thrusters kick in, hurtling you towards the planet’s surface. The stark beauty, and the knowledge that there is no turning back even if you wanted to, and the pure contrast making you realize just how small and insignificant you really are.
Time bends around you. Your super-sonic drop to terra firma could take hours or days. The HUD of your suit flashes irrelevant data, your only tie to reality. When you finally reach the ground everything around you is frozen in the glare of the drop flares that are supposed to confuse enemy tracking systems.
What comes next is perfection more elegant than any civilian can dream of. For fifteen minutes, you are more than human. You are become death. You are life. You are an ancient Greek god of war, abroad a thunderous chariot. You are love, and you do love. You love all the souls being released at your hand. It is beautiful and vulnerable and pure, a perfect climax in your lovers embrace.
Then it is over. The drop ships come in easy through the devastated defenses. You climb aboard, spent. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes you bask in the afterglow. The female pilots joke that the men fall asleep after a battle. No matter what, it has been sated for now. You can return to a normal routine for another few days.
“Final approach. We will be over the drop sight in t-minus 3 minutes. Prepare for launch.”
I can never tell whether a new pilot will survive a jump. But stick close to me, I mean in my shadow, and you might stay alive long enough to receive your own blessing, or your own curse.