First training officer Penton Niriz could not stop the broad grin from forming on his gentrical face.  Today, the final test of the Carida Academy’s 35th graduating class was to be conducted.  For nineteen straight weeks he had taught them all he knew about basic flight maneuvers, attack formations, and most of all, how to properly follow orders.  And what better way to display their newfound skills and techniques than to pit them against the Academy’s new arrivals; the seasoned students would prove more than their match. The sequence would give the freshmen a taste of what Carida had to offer, while at the same time, the graduates could practice their maneuvers against live pilots; maybe not the best flyers, but sentient beings capable of thinking and reacting.
   Penton straightened his facial expression and donned his black flight helmet.  He sealed the helmet, which doubled as a mask, so it clasped airtight. An indicator light on his flight suit changed from red to green, confirming the lock was complete.  On opposing sides of the flashing green light, thick black plastic tubing protruded, making a link from the apparatus back to his helmet.  These tubes carried oxygen, so the pilot could breathe freely in his fighter.  Aside from breathing masks and helmets, all trainees and the training officer were garbed in the military’s black latex insulated suits.  Looking around through the tinted goggles, Penton regarded his students.  Then he gave them the thumbs up and they all proceeded to climb into their cockpits.
Once inside the cockpit, Penton locked the top hatch in place.  Following his list of procedures, he strapped himself in first. The inside of the fighter, once in space, was free of atmosphere and gravity. Without being buckled down, he ran the risk of being knocked around the cockpit at any given second. Having fastened himself in place, he switched on the main ion power drive.  Next came the auxiliaries.  Now that the ship was powered up, he turned on the various sensors and gauges which littered the duraplast interior. Last but not least, he fired up the comm station on the main console.  He was now ready to fly.
“Green one, this is Squadron Leader,” sounded a tinny voice from the speaker on the console.  “ Thirty-fifth ready for detachment.”
“Squadron leader, this is Green One,” Penton’s artificial voice commanded through the exterior sound bit on his helmet.  “Let’s take them out.”
The fighters, eleven in all, elevated from the hangar using a very controlled burst of repulsor-lift technology.  Once off the ground, they flew in a predetermined order. The squadron passed through the magnetic field, which kept atmosphere and oxygen in the belly of the docking ship, into the cold darkness of space. When they were far enough away from the larger vessel, the Squadron Leader’s orders emitted from the comm station.
“Form up,” he barked. “Don’t forget to tag our ships as friendlies on your boards.  Stay with your wing-man and follow his lead.  Let’s make this short and sweet and then drinks are on Officer Niriz.”
Penton Niriz grinned for just the second time that day.  He looked out through the octagon shaped transparisteel viewport at the white pinpricks of infinite stars.  For a split second, his concentration lapsed.  Then he became focused and checked his sensors for enemy blips.  There was nothing there, only the ten fighters under his tutelage.  He squinted out at the surrounding space, but there was nothing there except stars.  He was just about to inquire on the situation when his board lit up with red marks.  There were eight in all, and they were coming from the rear.
“Suggestions, Squadron Leader?” he asked.  The ships were still some distance away, and action was not critical as of yet.  Besides, Penton thought, a cool head usually prevails.
“Modified evasive and trap,” replied the Squadron Leader.
“Excellent,” returned Penton.  They learned well, mused the training officer.  Evasive and trap was an old but still well practiced maneuver in combat.  It consisted of a squadron, like Penton Niriz’s, breaking into multiple flights slightly before the pursuing enemies managed to get within firing range.  The center ships stayed on course to distract the antagonists, while two flights on opposite sides circled back and trapped them in a crossfire.  The only danger in this was foreknowledge of the tactic, or shooting down your own ships.  That was why Penton had modified the strategic move so that when his lead fighters received the double-click signal on their comm boards, they would turn out of harm’s way.
“Flights One and Three, break to port and starboard on my mark, respectively.  Two Flight, maintain present heading,” boomed the Squadron Leader.  Splitting in this fashion would leave two pairs of fighters on each side for the evasive and three fighters for the trap.  Penton Niriz was the leader of One Flight, so he would be breaking to port.  The training officer turned on his aiming reticle, determined to rack up a few kills for his file.  As their instructor, he was hands on, training them while he flew with them.  He was as much a part of their team as they were.  He toggled his lasers from single shot to double bursts.  The twin lasers would give him more firepower, but would sacrifice his rapid fire.  But, the twin lasers had a better chance of destroying or crippling an opposing ship.  Besides, these were only cadets.
“Mark,” shouted the Squadron leader.  Penton white knuckled his steering yoke and veered 90 degrees to port.  His wing-man and the other pair of fighters in his flight moved in synchronization with him.  The flight would distance out four clicks and come about on the tails of their enemies.  At least in theory.  Penton glanced down at his display and noticed the cadets had split into three flights as well.  One pair pursued the trap, and three each had broken to port and starboard on the trail of the evasives.  The training officer was very surprised.  The speed and efficiency of the fighters on his tail was startling.
“Two and Three, handle your own,” he said into the sound bit.  “One Flight, form on me,” he ordered.  The cadets, speaking militarily, had the advantage.  They were behind Penton Niriz’s ships, and almost within firing range.  Hoping to shake the fighters, which were quickly approaching, and to get a better shot at the fighters pursuing the other flights, Penton drove his craft downward.  With no gravity in space, maneuvers such as this were possible without the hindrance of drag.  After flipping below, Penton and One Flight brought their fighters around in a 180-degree turn, barrel rolling as they went.  This move lost two of the ships on their tails.  Penton quickly checked his board and saw that there were only ten green blips.  Someone in his flight had been shot down.
The two ships he avoided in his half-circle were easy pickings.  They had been separated from each other.  Penton turned to starboard, noticing his wing-man was still with him.  The fighter on his tail, still out of firing range, followed.  Penton switched to single shot, now more concerned with a quicker mode of firing.  When the first fighter lit up on his aiming reticle, he stutter tapped the trigger, feinting fire just to the ship’s port side.  When the fighter broke starboard, to evade the lasers, Penton fired two more shots in rapid succession, turning the target into a white, gaseous ball of death.  Flying through the incandescence, he checked his board again, and noticed he had lost two more pilots.  But the enemy, including his recent kill, was down to four fighters.
Suddenly, Penton’s fighter shook from impact.  He pulled hard up, just in time to see that the fighter which had been on their tails had turned his third fighter’s starboard wing pylon into a seething mass of molten slag.  Unable to control his ship, the pilot tried what any pilot outside of actual combat experience would try: to turn his ship.   The damaged fighter, out of control, crashed hard into Penton Niriz’s wing-man.  The two fighters tumbled together, unable to break their attraction, and collided with detrimental results.  Penton barely got clear of the danger.
Red warning lights immediately started flashing on his board.  He was in the targeting sights of the pursuer.  He juked, insinctively, trying to shake the targeting lock.  But it wasn’t working.  This cadet, whoever he was, was a much better pilot than Penton.  Still trying, unsuccessfully, Penton Niriz looked down at his board and saw only two green blips.  Soon, he thought, there will only be one.  A brilliant white flash lit up his viewport while he muttered something in disgust.
He sat in the cockpit, drenched in sweat for a good thirty seconds before he reached up and unlocked the hatch.  When he did, he heard whooping and cheering.  Pulling himself out of the simulator, Penton Niriz looked on at the crowd, which was gathered around a well groomed, sophisticated looking young man. He yanked off his helmet and squinted for a better look. Immediately, the youth’s gaze turned towards Penton, burning intensely.  The man had no smile on his face, only the look of one who has many more tasks to complete before the day is done.  The first training officer, knowing his place, jumped down from the simulator and approached the cadet, mulling his way through the other pilots.  Once he was near enough, Penton Niriz extended his hand, which the other gracefully shook.  The young man’s hand was ice-cold.
“May I have the pleasure of knowing the man who blew me out of space?” asked Penton Niriz.
“Certainly,” replied the other.  “My name is Soontir Fel.”
“Well, Soontir, hopefully the Empire has a place for you,” said Penton.  He looked the young man over once more and began the long walk to his personal quarters.  He would need some time to himself.  He needed to think of an excuse for losing his full team to eight cadets.