Free Devon's Blade by Ken McConnell

really love and appreciate my fellow pilots and I know the feeling was mutual. Not a day went past when one of my pilots didn’t thank me for being there or thank me for helping them get kills. That was a rare and precious thing for a commander to hear. It meant that I was doing things right and that my people appreciated it.
    In return for their loyalty and hard work, I made sure Supply kept the liquor stocked and that once a week we celebrated our successes with a Roll Call. Roll Calls were another long time tradition amongst fighter pilots. At the end of the week we would get together and celebrate the week’s victories with drink, food and story. They were like call sign naming ceremonies but less crazy and more reflective.
    As a part of my Roll Calls I always included someone from the Maintenance Squadron to recognize their contributions to our fighting record. We wouldn’t be the aces we were without their efforts to keep our birds in the air. Sometimes we came back with our steeds all shot to hell and inevitably, twenty four hours later the same birds would be back in service, ready for action again. How they managed to do that was always a mystery to me and my pilots. As much as I tried to understand their profession, it was often times a complete mystery to me. But then, I reckon that punching holes in the sky was equally mysterious to them.
    The Maintenance Squadron Commander was Major Chip Thorn. A maintainer his entire career, he was well versed in the needs of his people. He and I didn’t get along too good on most occasions and I never understood why. Perhaps it was due to the remoteness of Kew and how hard it was to get supplies or perhaps he just had it in for pilots in general, but I never could get him to agree to come to our Roll Calls. So I stopped trying and instead invited his Chief.
    Now, Chief Chet Hawkins was a man I could respect and we got along famously. Especially if I managed to sneak him a bottle of his favorite whiskey every once and a while. I never got any static from him about how impossible it was to repair our Swifts. Whenever our pilots mistreated his birds he would always be direct with me and I’d solve the issue on my side. We got to know each other quite well over drinks at the hooch. We both liked to unwind after a long day by swapping stories about the kids under our command. I thought fighter pilots were hard to manage but he had incredible patience to deal with his enlisted kids. Truth be told they were all like his family to him. His real family was grown up and moved away and it was just him and his wife Claire back at the homestead on Selene.
    He didn’t talk much about himself and neither did I, but I could tell he missed her and his home. He owned a ranch with a few hundred head of cattle and a good bit of land out west. Listening to him talk about ranch life reminded me of my days on Ocherva where most of the population were ranchers. Something about people who make their living off the land, makes them more grounded than those who don’t. I suppose as someone who makes her living flying around in air and space, I yearned to be more grounded.
    Late one afternoon between sorties I was sitting under a palm tree overlooking the only beach where we were allowed to swim. I was wearing as little clothing as possible, having just taken a dip in the warm waves. A wrap around my waist and a simple tank top sufficed for my afternoon break. I had plenty of water nearby and drank my required amount, but mostly I was just listening to the waves crash and watching the palm fronds waving in the breeze.
    “Is this spot taken or may I join you?”
    I looked up to see Chief Hawkins standing over me. He was wearing his work clothes, drenched in oil and sweat and carrying his own water.
    I sat up and pulled my wrap down to ensure I had enough coverage to be decent.
    “Pull up a patch of sand, Chief,” I said.
    He plopped down beside me in the shade and took a long drink from his water