Alyssa Kydd
Starscream
Pamarthe glittered under the evening lights, its horizon a pale ribbon of frost-light reflecting off the waves. The Recognition Hall had been dressed for ceremony, its vaulted windows catching every flare of the planet's twin moons as if celebrating alongside the pilots within.
Alyssa Kidd stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a dark-azure dress uniform that carried the scent of starship coolant and new beginnings. Her boots, polished to a rebellious gleam, felt a little too loud on the stone floor as she had made her way up the stage.
Commander.
The word still buzzed in her chest like an overexcited astromech.
She'd been honored for her ace-pilot feats, decorated with the newest commendation for aerospace mastery, and—most shocking of all—handed command of a covert squadron formed of rogue specialists and unorthodox geniuses.
The brass called it Strategic Tactical Aero Recon: Special Command.
The pilots called it Black Ops.
But the locals already had their own title for her, shouted lovingly as she'd walked through the hall:
Starscream!
It echoed now in her mind, bright and ridiculous and perfect.
And yet, as the last of the dignitaries filtered out and the roar of applause muted into a celebratory hum outside… a thin knot of nerves tightened in her sternum.
The after-party.
Every pilot in the region was attending. Every veteran. Every former cadet. Every instructor who'd begged her to slow down. Every troublemaker who'd tried to race her across the southern clouds.
And some ghosts she hadn't expected to face again.
Her ex-boyfriend—the one she'd left behind when she and Maren had joined the starcorps for the CIS. She hadn't seen him since. Hadn't looked him in the eye since before the war had swallowed everything. Hadn't said his name in years.
And her family.
Her father Vaan, proud in that quiet tectonic way.
Her mother Ginny, crystalline and intimidating even when she was loving.
And her six surviving siblings, loud enough to be classified as a small natural disaster.
Alyssa drew in a breath through her nose and released it slowly. A strand of hair escaped her regulation braid, brushing her cheek like a reminder that she wasn't entirely assembled.
She stepped into a side corridor where the noise softened. Pale-blue light strobed gently from floor panels, washing her in a cool glow. She unclipped her comm.
There was exactly one person whose advice she trusted for this sort of thing.
Who could talk her down from any cliff.
Who could charm a star out of its orbit if necessary.
She opened a line.
Alyssa Kidd stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a dark-azure dress uniform that carried the scent of starship coolant and new beginnings. Her boots, polished to a rebellious gleam, felt a little too loud on the stone floor as she had made her way up the stage.
Commander.
The word still buzzed in her chest like an overexcited astromech.
She'd been honored for her ace-pilot feats, decorated with the newest commendation for aerospace mastery, and—most shocking of all—handed command of a covert squadron formed of rogue specialists and unorthodox geniuses.
The brass called it Strategic Tactical Aero Recon: Special Command.
The pilots called it Black Ops.
But the locals already had their own title for her, shouted lovingly as she'd walked through the hall:
Starscream!
It echoed now in her mind, bright and ridiculous and perfect.
And yet, as the last of the dignitaries filtered out and the roar of applause muted into a celebratory hum outside… a thin knot of nerves tightened in her sternum.
The after-party.
Every pilot in the region was attending. Every veteran. Every former cadet. Every instructor who'd begged her to slow down. Every troublemaker who'd tried to race her across the southern clouds.
And some ghosts she hadn't expected to face again.
Her ex-boyfriend—the one she'd left behind when she and Maren had joined the starcorps for the CIS. She hadn't seen him since. Hadn't looked him in the eye since before the war had swallowed everything. Hadn't said his name in years.
And her family.
Her father Vaan, proud in that quiet tectonic way.
Her mother Ginny, crystalline and intimidating even when she was loving.
And her six surviving siblings, loud enough to be classified as a small natural disaster.
Alyssa drew in a breath through her nose and released it slowly. A strand of hair escaped her regulation braid, brushing her cheek like a reminder that she wasn't entirely assembled.
She stepped into a side corridor where the noise softened. Pale-blue light strobed gently from floor panels, washing her in a cool glow. She unclipped her comm.
There was exactly one person whose advice she trusted for this sort of thing.
Who could talk her down from any cliff.
Who could charm a star out of its orbit if necessary.
She opened a line.