"Matthew, three months of new training—are you getting used to it?"
"Commander, how could I get used to this? This space looks exactly like a submarine cabin. Even if I stayed a few more years, I'd never adapt," Matthew said. He was a major, male, thirty-nine years old, once an elite pilot in the U.S. Air Force, now a space fighter pilot and head instructor in America's First Aerospace Group.
The First Aerospace Group operated from Eden, a space station in geostationary orbit above the U.S. The name "Eden" symbolized humanity's first step into the universe.
It wasn't too crowded when Eden held only 3,000 people. But after the alien invasion, another 2,000 were added, making it feel packed. Still, 5,000 wasn't the station's max capacity. The massive station took over a decade to build, its layers crisscrossing into a structure hundreds of times bigger than the International Space Station. Since it wasn't built in one go, Eden looked like a giant pile of random blocks from the outside. But inside, it had twice the area of an aircraft carrier.
"Of course it's like a submarine—Eden is basically a deep-space sub. Looks like you've gotten used to it," the commander said. He was in his fifties, hair streaked with white, a loyal patriot and veteran soldier. He'd served in Vietnam and the Middle East. Though his family had been in the military and politics for generations, he'd earned every rank by himself, with merits that rivaled his forebears. Everyone on Eden respected him deeply.
Matthew gazed at the unchanging starry sky outside and sighed. "Stay here too long, and you'll get depression."
"Our mission was always going to be tough," the commander said. "How's the new batch of recruits you brought along?"
"They're okay—no one's sick yet. But they're bored out of their minds, so fights break out now and then," Matthew admitted. "But once training starts, they're roaring like good soldiers again."
"That's good. We're more important than ever. If aliens show up in their ships, we're Earth's first line of defense. We have to fly our fighters and stop them before they reach the planet. So training can't slip. Fighting in space is completely different from inside the atmosphere."
"That's for sure. In space, you have to be super careful—one wrong move and your fighter will spiral out of control. That's nothing like flying in the atmosphere, and at first everyone struggled with it," Matthew said honestly, though they'd now overcome that challenge.
"Good. Today's training plan stays the same—formation practice," the commander said.
"Got it."
Matthew left, and the commander contacted Houston, reporting that today's plan wouldn't change and requesting ground observation. They'd be practicing the barrel shooting formation today.
That meant forming a spiral formation to attack a single point. Clearly, they'd already built up some experience in space combat and figured out decent tactics.
The U.S. space fighters were far more refined than the satellite Liu A'dou once used. Their appearance alone showed a clear space fighter prototype. In space, it didn't matter what a plane looked like, as long as it had enough thrusters. But American gear always had to look stylish, and their space fighters were no exception.
The "Python" was their space fighter, usually docked outside Eden. Each carried two crew members, with thrusters on the front, back, sides, top, and bottom. The weapons were large-caliber machine guns mounted on both sides of the nose. The Python was designed a few years ago, with 80 units produced, all now stationed at Eden.
Out here, in space, only these American soldiers roamed freely, unstoppable. They were proud because they were the first-ever stationed space troops—not just America's first, but humanity's first cosmic army.
Eden was a mystery, America's top secret. Only the Secretary of Defense at the Pentagon, the President at the White House, the NASA director, and high-level S.H.I.E.L.D. officials knew about it.
The Python fighters looked similar to atmospheric jets, but their wings were so small they were almost invisible, and the fuselage was shorter than a fourth-generation fighter's. The cockpit took up nearly one-third of the whole jet. The canopy was reinforced glass with an internal radar. Clearly, the Python was just a training aircraft—it couldn't handle real long-range combat in space. Without high-sensitivity radar or long-range weapons, it stood no chance.
If they relied on eyesight alone, enemies would pick them off from 800 miles away. Space was just too big. The Python wasn't a real combat-ready space fighter. But as America's first space jet, it was more than good enough for training. In the future, second- and third-generation space fighters would have better long-range radar and weapons—laser guns, missiles, everything.
A group of astronauts climbed out of Eden, holding onto rails as they moved toward the fighters. The Pythons had no wheels—they were magnetically attached to Eden's outer walls. Pilots had to float in space, open the canopy, and climb into the jets.
Meanwhile, the ground crew—well, "space crew"—were strapped to the station's walls by ropes. Calling them ground crew felt weird in space, but they didn't fly, so the name stuck.
Strapped in, they checked instruments and radar. "All systems normal. Ready for launch," said Matthew, the pilot. His co-pilot was named Jack. The co-pilot handled radar scanning because space was huge and enemies could hide anywhere, so they needed someone dedicated to searching.
Matthew handled piloting and firing. The Python was a close-combat craft that demanded top-tier flying skills.
"All clear. Preparing to detach. Positive Y-axis ignition. Watch your surroundings—don't bump into anything," Matthew ordered.
"Split into two squadrons for formation training."
"Captain, are we seriously doing another round of fighting thin air? So boring."
"Yeah, we need some real targets. If this keeps up, I might just shoot at a satellite for practice."
"Check your surroundings and fighter status," Matthew snapped. "One day these drills will save your life. Ignition ready."
After detaching, the Pythons stayed still. Only once they fired their thrusters could they drift away from Eden. The station's structure was a dense web of massive tubes like a scaffold of thick straws. One wrong move could smash into it, so launching was always risky.
This training sortie had 20 jets, split into two groups of 10. They had to exit from the station's top—rules said to enter from below and exit from above, keeping order to avoid collisions.
"GO!" The 20 Pythons silently shot out into space. Just a little thrust sent them drifting far thanks to inertia.
Once clear of Eden, they accelerated. The 20 Pythons split into two formations, quickly becoming two tiny dots in the starry sky. Soon, they were invisible to the naked eye.
At the same time, Liu A'dou's rocket blasted off, piercing the blue sky.
Humanity had always felt a special bond with space, East or West. Ancient people drew inspiration from the stars, gaining insights into philosophy and literature.
Now Liu A'dou was heading into space himself, reaching for the weightless world above.