The last ten years had been, without a doubt, the most exhilarating in the history of man kind. It had taken them over a hundred years to go from the moon to Mars, and then nearly another fifty just to reach the edge of their own solar system. And then in 2148, everything had changed. They'd not only discovered the existence of another race, it had apparently been a far more advanced one than even themselves, and this same discovery had allowed them to unlock the Mass Relay hidden inside Charron, Pluto's moon. The galaxy had opened up for them, and humanity had gone forward with the same pioneering spirit that they had displayed since the dawn of their existence.
But even though the answer as to whether or not there was life out there in the galaxy had been answered, it was replaced by a thousand others. Where were the Protheans now? With the ruins they found dating back thousands upon thousands of years, it was obvious they hadn't returned for some time. Were they the only ones? And would the Protheans or any other race they encountered be friendly or hostile? It wasn't until 2157 that some of these questions were answered, though in a far less ideal way than most would want. The human race was under attack by an unknown alien race. They had attacked and destroyed a group of ships, with only one managing to escape to warn the Alliance. Retaliation was swift, but no one was naïve enough to assume the threat was gone.
Sure enough, the aliens attacked again, and broke through the meager defense the Alliance had scrambled together as quickly as it could, and took the planet of Shanxi. This time, the Alliance was determined to stop this attack that seemed almost like an invasion in it's track, and sent out the Second Fleet under Admiral Kastanie Drescher. Among the Fleet was the ship the SSV Chatahoochie, which was an impressive vessel despite it's amusing name, captained by one Henry Chase. The Fleet was going to take back Shanxi, there was no question to it.
The space around Shanxi was abuzz with activity. Starships fired on one another and transports took down squadrons of marines to fight on the ground, and star fighters zipped about, engaged in spacial dog fighters. Among them was the fighter crew of the Chatahoochie, a ten man crew captained by Vincent Lawrence, called 'Hijack' by his team.
The youngest pilot, at 22, was the captain's own daughter, Artemis Chase, called 'Fire Bird' by her crew for her red hair and attitude, and 'Princess' by others, though none would dare say that to her face unless they were a masochist who liked getting their teeth broken. More than a few eye brows had been raised when Artemis had been transferred onto the ship captained by her father, but she'd worked hard to prove herself, and nobody could say that her father treated her more delicately than anyone else. In fact, he seemed harder on her than the rest of the ship's crew, but there was still suspicion and resentment from some of the crew who needed an excuse to dislike the pilot. She was good, the top of her class in flight school, and one of the best around at all, not that anyone told her that for fear of giving her already inflated ego even more hot air, but she seemed to know it all the same.
The squad wasn't engaging unless they had to though, in fact they were carving a path through the high orbit dog fighting, flying in a tight formation around a larger jet, a bomber carrying exactly the kind of cargo one would expect a bomber to carry. Breaking through the fight and into the atmosphere, Artemis chewed a piece of gum to help relieve the pressure of descending to the planet. Her ears popped repeatedly thanks to the gum she was chewing, and in her ears music played loudly, making the racket of the air rushing over her jet more of a dull roar by comparison. The music dimmed for a moment as Hijack came over the collective comms of the squad and their charge, “Alright, target is only ten minutes away, we'll be there in no time. Begin descent.”
They all kept their eyes pealed for any enemy aircraft, they were under orders not to engage except for in self defense, but none came to meet them. Artemis' screen lit up as in the distance, a black dot came into view on the ground. The UI targeted it for her, and began to read out all the information it had on it. “Target in sight,” the bomber's pilot came on, “Dropping in 5-4-3-”
The transmission was interrupted for Artemis as her jet's VI came to life, “Targeting detected,” she was informed by that annoyingly calm, proper female voice. It had always annoyed her how damn stuck up VI's sounded. She'd program the thing to say something more like 'oh shit some one is about to shoot at you' if she could get away with it. “I got an eye on me,” Artemis told her squad, barrel rolling out of formation to try and shake off whatever was trying to get a lock on her.
She hadn't even pulled out of the maneuver when she felt her jet jerk around her, shaking violently and a glance to her right showed her that half her wing was missing, a thick black plume of smoke pouring from the 'wound' as she spiraled out of control. Artemis knew from the ground it would look like a black streamer twirling from her fighter. “Right wing's gone,” her voice was surprisingly calm, but she was chewing on her gum like a horse chomping at the bit, “Can't maintain altitude.”
“Turn on your locator,” Hijack told her, sounding just as calm, “We'll send a shuttle for you ASAP.”
“You better, I hate sand,” Artemis answered as she pressed a few buttons on her terminal that activated the locator in her seat. “Ditching now, see you in a bit,” she reached overhead and pulled the lever to activate the ejection process, the glass canopy of her fighter popping fry and flying off, the cabin filling with a rushed torrent of wind. One last button was pushed and with a loud pop and hiss she was ejected out of the falling jet, her parachute activating and letting her fall lazily towards the brown, barren landscape.
She watched her fighter spiral and swerve until it finally hit the baked sand with a tremendous bang and rending of metal and a plume of smoke, while Artemis drifting downward. As she got about half way down she released the seat that she had been strapped into and that held her locator, freeing her to brace and roll as she hit the ground with a grunt and a plume of sand and dust.
