Wing Cover

Varis Jer was thirteen standard years old the first time his psychic power drove him into a berserker madness. Andi Vor was fifteen. Both were far too young to be in the military. The rare, destructive psychic ability they had made them far too powerful to be anywhere else.

Destined to be “berserkers” for the winged wonders of the Galaxy, they learned early that being a warrior was more than battle cries and laser shots. Most of it was marching, eating slop, and putting up with whatever brand of bull shit came into their face. The rest of it was made up of scenes they did not want to remember and nightmares that would not let them forget.

Hell settled into their hearts as they fought enemies they’d thought were friends for causes they no longer believed in. One cause alone kept them marching through the bad judgement calls and worse betrayals: covering each other’s wings and honoring the father who taught them what it was to be men.

THE TWO BOYS circled one another like a pair of wolves—hackles up, muscles taut, eyes searching one another for weaknesses.

The older warriors wanted to see a fight—a nasty kick, gouge, and wing slap fight.

“With one of us, 'er the two a yous!” the boys were told.

Whichever way it happened, the boys knew the end result was going to be the same. One of them was going to get mauled to satisfy the savagery. The other would have drinks bought for him, a decent meal, and the good will of everyone who bet on him. Sometimes he might even get a share of the winnings, which included a turn at the loser.

If he fought a good fight, he might even get firsts at him—if he wasn’t hurt too badly to take advantage of the prize. A good fight, in these veteran’s eyes, meant one or both combatants hospitalized, but that would be after the older warriors had their fun.

The boys, surrounded by nearly twenty mean, drunken, seasoned warriors knew there was no backing out. Bets had been placed and there would be blood.

The older boy snapped out his name and his experience as he circled the younger, his voice barely audible above the screams around them.

“Andi Vor. Sixteen standard, six months in. You?”

“Varis Jer. Fourteen standard, three months in.”

Varis knew if he let the bigger boy get his wings open first he would be at a disadvantage. There were few counter attacks against full wings open. The only one Varis knew well was a drop, roll, and kick for the legs. This would pull the opponent down, but it could also do some real damage to his own closed wings. Opening those wings in the roll wasn’t an option.