One thousand, eighty-nine…

For three years, the face stared at her. Unblinking, all knowing, and unavoidable, the gentle green eyes peered out at her, watching her grow from an awkward young girl to the person she was today. The smile on the face became a reminder, an ever-present impetus to ‘never quit, never surrender, and never lose.’ The picture drove her.

One thousand, ninety …

Her mother had taught her that simple mantra when she was twelve. She could still remember her mothers face, as she had spoken the words. The motto of the fleet aerospace command. A glint of cold steel flashed behind the kind eyes and she felt a swell of pride at herself and her daughter.

One thousand, ninety-one…

Just two days before, Kelly Fairchild Mahan had attended the Armistice Day air show to watch her own mother perform with the Fleet acrobatic team, the Red Dragons. From the ground, jaw agape, she stared as her mother, and seven other pilots, flung their fighters through crowd-pleasing maneuvers.

One-thousand, ninety-two…

She’d covered her eyes several times, as the fighters roared past each with carefully choreographed precision, the tips of their aerofoils streaking past each other’s cockpits with just mere feet to spare. At least twice, the blurs of red had merged together, and Kelly swore that the small, maneuverable craft had collided. But there was no fire, no panic, and no sign of any trouble, except the gasp of a small girl.

One thousand, ninety-three …

When she asked whether they had hit each other, up there in the baby blue sky, Mother explained later that it was simply an optical illusion. It had been a perfect performance, she added with a contented smile and confident thumbs-up. It was the same expression; Kelly had seen when the Red Dragons taxied back to the flight line, their performance complete.

One thousand, ninety-four…

When the fighters were stopped and powered down, all eight pilots stood in their cockpits; brilliant in their immaculate red flight suits, removed their helmets, and waved to the adoring crowd. Kelly remembered watching, captivated and clapping wildly, as her mother stood, tucked her helmet under her left arm, and her beautiful auburn hair spilled down around her shoulders. She cast the crowd a recruiting poster perfect smile, and thumbs up.

One thousand, ninety-five…

“I want to be a pilot, like you!”
On the drive home several hours later, Kelly, still bubbling with excitement, had blurted out those words. It was a radical transformation for the young girl, who just a day before had been more interested in boys, fashion and music. Now, in the blink of an eye, she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and become a member of the United Earth Aerospace Command. Kelly could see her mother’s eyes glisten, her voice filled with pride, as she explained what it would take to her young daughter: intelligence, athletic prowess, and discipline.

One thousand, ninety-six…

Kelly had always been good at school. Particularly in her scientific studies and mathematics. After her mother’s speech however, those scores jumped to the top of the class. Awards and recognition came soon afterwards, blue ribbons in city-wide science fairs, and math competitions. She became unrelentingly competitive, studying, cramming, and pushing for every percentage point when it came to grades.

One thousand, ninety-seven…

Athletic prowess was another story. Her mother was gifted with the grace and inner balance of a ballerina. But that genetic treasure had not carried down to her daughter. She struggled with team sports, and gymnastics became its own particular brand of hell. Kelly could remember coming home from a competition, in tears, after failing to stick the dismount from the uneven bars. It had cost her team a chance to win, and the guilt, shame, and disappointment broke her normally stubborn pride.

Her mother, home on leave, had taken her aside when she ran in the front door. Tears flowed down her face as Kelly admitted her defeat. She couldn’t do it. She was too uncoordinated. She would never become a pilot.
“You can too,” her mother said, wiping her daughter’s tears away with a tissue. “If you really want to be. You’ll just have to work on the athletic part. You are lucky, most people struggle in the academic part. But, for you it’s easy. But, you have to want to try.”

One thousand, ninety-eight…

Kelly looked up hopefully at her mother, green eyes meeting green eyes. She nodded, even as salty tears still flowed down her rosy cheeks. That night, they began running through the neighborhood, doing push-ups, doing sit-ups. Throughout secondary school, while most students spent their nights studying for their classes, she spent the evening following doggedly after her mother.
Day after day, she struggled to keep up, until finally one day, her junior year, she looked down, as the miles past under her feet that she was keeping up. Stride for muscular stride, push-up for push-up, sit-up for strenuous sit-up.

One thousand, ninety-nine…

Kelly lifted herself off the floor of her room, once more, carefully regulating her breathing as her arms pushed her into the air. Her back remained ramrod straight, as she reached her apex. She exhaled. And headed back to the floor, to repeat the cycle.
Her determined green eyes focused on the picture of her mother on her dresser.

Each day, she looked more and more like her mother now. The petite build, slender strength, determination lurking behind her green eyes. Even her auburn hair, wrapped in a tight bun as she worked out, was the same. The only difference was the smattering of freckles on her cheeks.

She could even hear her mother’s gentle voice in her head: Come on baby, one more. Kelly rose and fell, blowing an errant wisp of hair out of her face. You can do it; I know it, her mother said from deep in her mind. I know you can. Now, say it . . .

Her exhausted arms quivered, and sweat beaded on her forehead, as Cadet Kelly Fairchild Mahan lifted herself once more into the air. Her breathing was ragged, her entire body aching, but up she went. As she reached the top, she held herself there, gritting her teeth as her body tried to disobey her commands.

“One-hundred,” she yelled, filling her room with the pronouncement.

Her voice echoed through the house. Downstairs, watching the holo-screen, her widower father heard it. He looked up, eyes full of concern, and sighed. Hoisting up his can of beer, he stood and looked at the picture of his wife, draped with a black cloth.

“Well,” he slurred drunkenly, “she made it. She got in. Another member of the family to die in the name of the United Earth.” He walked up to the picture, and glowered at it. “I just hope you’re proud of yourself.”