First Leg

Kaihi

As soon as we clear the carrier, I shove the nose down. I’ve been told to stay low, so I’ll stay low. No sense tempting fate this early.

“Fiya,” I say, flicking on her channel, “plot a route to the Balsa. Quickest path - unless there’s a safer one. Keep us low.”

“On it!” she chirps.

She goes silent. The rolling hills rise quickly beneath us. Around three hundred meters up, I level out. The Sanan handles beautifully - tight, clean, responsive. She’ll be a joy to fly in combat.

Which I’m sure isn’t far off.

The HUD flickers. Navigation rings appear across my view.

“Done!” Fiya says brightly.

“Thanks. I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to follow them in combat.”

“Then I’ll keep them updated based on your flight path.”

“Appreciated.”

I scan the radar. Nothing. As expected. We’re still inside Karikogan airspace - safe, for now.

“Fiya, how long do you think we’ll have once we cross the border before they scramble interceptors?”

She pauses for a second.

“Maybe ten minutes. Less if they’re already watching for us.”

I nod, adjusting the stick slightly. Then, with one hand steadying the controls, I unfurl the large paper map across my lap. The autopilot holds us steady.

I trace the terrain with my eyes, plotting two backup routes - one if we’re forced to divert, another in case I need to abort the mission and return. I repeat the names of each landmark in my head, committing the sequence to memory.

Satisfied, I fold the map and tuck it back away.

My thoughts drift to the girl in the back seat. She’s been silent this whole time. I want to say something, but... what do I even say? I don’t know her name. I don’t know if I’m supposed to know it. Or if I’m even allowed to ask.

But then Fiya’s voice crackles through the headset:

“We’re crossing the border now!”

And just like that, I’ve got my excuse.

I open the intercom. Then hesitate.
How do I address her? For all I know, she could be a princess. I close the channel.

Think, Kaihi. Think.
How do you speak to someone you’ve never even met?

I open it again.

“Pardon me, Miss, but we’ve just crossed the border. I need to ask before it’s too late - do I need to know anything before we go into combat? Anything your condition might limit?”

Silence. A few seconds pass. Long enough for me to wonder if she’s passed out - or if I’ve said something wrong.

Then: a stifled giggle.

Giggle?

“Miss? Are you alright?”

She bursts into full-blown laughter. I blink, thrown completely off-course.
But then it turns to coughing - a tight, brittle sound that makes me wince. Not good. She pushes through it, and finally answers:

“Sorry, sorry. No one’s ever called me ‘Miss’ before - it feels weird.”

She giggles again, light and warm.

I’m completely lost.

“My apologies. How would you prefer I address you?”

Another laugh. She calms herself, though her voice is still a little breathless.

“Please - don’t be so formal. It’s strange. My name’s Eliza. But... call me Zyla.”

Zyla. It suits her.

“Alright. Zyla. Nice to meet you. I’m Kaihi.”

“Nice to meet you too, Kaihi.”

She’s more talkative than I expected. I catch a glimpse of her red hair in the rear mirror, just visible over the seat.

“I’ve never left the country by air before,” she says, voice softening.

She sounds uncertain. I want to say something comforting - but I know what’s coming.

“Well, I hate to say it, but this won’t be the best first experience. Aside from altitude, is there anything else your body can’t handle? Like G-force?”

“G-force?”

“The crushing feeling when I turn hard. Like this.”

I bank the Sanan, pulling smoothly back on the stick. The G-meter climbs. 3G. 4. Then I ease off and level out.

“That sensation.”

A pause. Her voice comes back unsure.

“Ooo... that felt weird. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Looks like I’ll have to take it slow.

“That’s alright. If it ever feels like too much, just let me know.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

The engine hums steadily. The ground glides past beneath us, distant clouds hanging high overhead. I follow the nav rings, tracing careful, wide arcs between the hills, eyes sweeping the sky. I expect Fiya’s doing the same. Sunlight catches the canopy, warm against my flight suit, reflecting in gold flashes off the camo skin of the Sanan.

I’m not used to not seeing the wings - they sit so far back, I have to twist completely to catch a glimpse.

Then Fiya’s voice whispers in my ear.

“Radar’s got a ping. Three minutes out. Incoming. IFF unclear.”

We crossed the border six minutes ago. An intercept now is too late for it to be a waiting ambush, but too early to say they were caught off guard.

Assuming it’s an enemy at all. With no IFF confirmation, I can’t say for sure. But the odds of a friendly aircraft flying this deep into enemy territory are slim to none.

I make a subtle course correction. The blip continues for a second - then shifts, mirroring my path.

Intercept in two minutes. Perfect angle. Almost certainly hostile. Still too far to see, but radar has no such problem.

My breath hitches. Heart pounding. I steady myself.

In. Out. In. Out. Relax.

The blip inches closer.

“One minute to contact,” Fiya says. “Switch to combat mode?”

I grit my teeth. No more room for doubt.

“Yes. Do it. We have to take them down before they can radio back - assuming they haven’t already.”

I flip the intercom.

“Zyla, we’re about to meet our first challenge. Are you strapped in?”

Her reply is nervous, quiet.

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“We’re being intercepted. Enemy aircraft.”

As if on cue, the IFF lights up. Hostile.

Thirty seconds.

I keep my course steady. Let them think they have the upper hand. The radar starts to beep.

They have a lock.

Still I hold the line, eyes scanning the sky.

Fifteen seconds.

I key the intercom again.

“Here we go.”

Then I spot it.

A single-seat fighter.

Similar silhouette to the last one I shot down - probably the same model, actually. The radar claims a lock, but my warning system hasn’t lit up yet. Weapons aren’t armed. He’s approaching to identify us visually. Then he’ll radio his base, wait for instructions. Maybe he’ll order us to turn back.

But a heavy fighter running low and fast like we are? That’s going to raise eyebrows.

They might skip the warning altogether.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Five seconds.

Suddenly, Fiya screeches into my headset. “Radio signal detected! He’s contacting his base!”

That’s it. That’s my cue.

I yank the stick to the left, slamming the Sanan into a tight roll, nose swinging around just as Fiya plots a radar lock. The targeting ring flashes on my HUD. My hands and feet move on instinct - stick, rudder, throttle, flaps - lining up the intercept. There’s no time for him to react. No time to make the transmission. No time to say anything.

I whisper a silent prayer.

A prayer for guilt.

A prayer for forgiveness.

My finger tightens.

The twin Elros Mark Fives mounted in the nose erupt with a mechanical roar, a chainsaw scream rattling through the cockpit. The barrels shudder smoke and heat as twenty-five millimeter shells streak through the air, each one a tiny death. The nose barely kicks from the short burst - no more than thirty rounds - but every shot counts. The line of fire slices through the fuselage of the enemy plane with surgical precision.

The canopy explodes.

Red mist fans outward like a whale’s spout.

No chance to eject.

No chance to survive.

The fighter lurches, belches fire, and begins to spiral. Zyla gasps in my headset - my heart skips. I must’ve left the intercom open.

I level out and watch it go. It spins end over end like a broken toy, vanishing into a swath of dense forest before a bloom of flame erupts from the canopy line. The explosion is sharp. Brief. Final.

It’ll be hours - maybe days - before the wreckage is found.

Which is exactly what we need.

Soft breathing comes through the headset. Quick. Shallow.

“Are you alright?”

There’s a pause. Then Zyla’s voice comes through, unsteady.

“Y-yes. I’m alright. I’m alright.”

But I know she’s not. She’s probably never seen someone die before. Not like that. I wince, guilt pooling in my chest. That’s a terrible way to be introduced to war.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I had to. It was him or us.”

Her breath catches again, then steadies.

“Was… was it quick?”

“Yes,” I answer, trying to sound confident. “Direct hit. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

I’m pretty confident about this - majority of the shells smashed through the cockpit. But will it help?

“Oh. OK. Good. That’s good.”

Her voice fades to silence.

The intercom is still open, but nothing more comes through.

I swallow. My mouth feels like sandpaper. My hands are steady, but inside, I’m reeling. What have I done? What can I say? How do you explain something like that?

But the words don’t come.

So I fall back into the rhythm. Stick steady. Eyes forward.

Fly the plane. Scan the sky. Check the instruments.

Fly, scan, check.
Fly, scan, check.