Their peace only lasted for a few more days before the lines of the war shifted. Their ship's patrol on the edges of Alliance space had been a remote and safe outpost for trainees still getting used to their starfighters and each other. But suddenly the Colteron lines shifted.
The first time, Adam thought the alarms were just another drill, until they were in the ship and there were targets, real targets, Colteron targets. It was just like a simulation, except that everything was different. The real velocity and recoil of their starfighter in battle was nothing like the stable simulations, and nothing like their test flights.
It went on and on, unlike any of the simulations except a few of the endurance ones. They were in the battle for hours, and finally withdrawn from battle only so that the next shift could go in. Nine hours to rest, and then they were up again, in a battle that went on for days. They got breaks in one hour for lunch and then nine hours to rest, with seven hour shifts in between, so that by the third day everyone was exhausted, but the Colteron waves let up, and they rested again, until a few days later it all started up again.
Adam barely talked anymore outside of practicalities. They didn't train, aside from the half hour of physical exercise that was required of them every day. He touched more frequently, however, and that made up for the lack of words. Every time they entered or exited their fighter, he touched his knuckles to Ronan's. When they ate, he sat close enough to Ronan that their legs touched. When they left their room each day, he bumped his shoulder against Ronan's, and when they returned, he brushed his fingers against Ronan's wrist.
There was no back-up coming, and they knew it. There were no ships to spare: they had been the spares. It was simply a matter of holding the line.
The exhaustion was familiar. Even on the days when the waves were lessened and the line could be held with fewer soldiers, there was still a sense that at any moment, the emergency routine could start again, to have as many soldiers in ships as possible, while the techs and doctors repaired ships and healed soldiers as quickly as possible to get them back in the fight.
It was a thrill, though, despite the fear and the exhaustion. Adam's trust in Ronan deepened every day, every flight. They kept each other alive, and their kill count was one of the best on the ship.
But there was a battle where they got overwhelmed, where they were both tired and in hour six of a seven hour shift. Pinned between two Colteron ships, Adam couldn't dodge it fast enough and they took a hit. The hull shattered, and even though the emergency force field went up within seconds, they were badly damaged.
"Ronan?" Adam asked, trying not to panic as he reversed fast, dodging through the oncoming ships while he retreated, babbling a quick report to their fellow ships--we're hit, we're retreating--"Ronan, talk to me, give me something."
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The first time, Adam thought the alarms were just another drill, until they were in the ship and there were targets, real targets, Colteron targets. It was just like a simulation, except that everything was different. The real velocity and recoil of their starfighter in battle was nothing like the stable simulations, and nothing like their test flights.
It went on and on, unlike any of the simulations except a few of the endurance ones. They were in the battle for hours, and finally withdrawn from battle only so that the next shift could go in. Nine hours to rest, and then they were up again, in a battle that went on for days. They got breaks in one hour for lunch and then nine hours to rest, with seven hour shifts in between, so that by the third day everyone was exhausted, but the Colteron waves let up, and they rested again, until a few days later it all started up again.
Adam barely talked anymore outside of practicalities. They didn't train, aside from the half hour of physical exercise that was required of them every day. He touched more frequently, however, and that made up for the lack of words. Every time they entered or exited their fighter, he touched his knuckles to Ronan's. When they ate, he sat close enough to Ronan that their legs touched. When they left their room each day, he bumped his shoulder against Ronan's, and when they returned, he brushed his fingers against Ronan's wrist.
There was no back-up coming, and they knew it. There were no ships to spare: they had been the spares. It was simply a matter of holding the line.
The exhaustion was familiar. Even on the days when the waves were lessened and the line could be held with fewer soldiers, there was still a sense that at any moment, the emergency routine could start again, to have as many soldiers in ships as possible, while the techs and doctors repaired ships and healed soldiers as quickly as possible to get them back in the fight.
It was a thrill, though, despite the fear and the exhaustion. Adam's trust in Ronan deepened every day, every flight. They kept each other alive, and their kill count was one of the best on the ship.
But there was a battle where they got overwhelmed, where they were both tired and in hour six of a seven hour shift. Pinned between two Colteron ships, Adam couldn't dodge it fast enough and they took a hit. The hull shattered, and even though the emergency force field went up within seconds, they were badly damaged.
"Ronan?" Adam asked, trying not to panic as he reversed fast, dodging through the oncoming ships while he retreated, babbling a quick report to their fellow ships--we're hit, we're retreating--"Ronan, talk to me, give me something."