But the Hell Razors had gone under them once, and two of the Navy machines were reporting hits taken. The lead Navy Marauder, called
Holy Terra,
had formation command. Viltry could hear the
Terra’s
commander, a man called Egsor, barking orders to the flight to maintain pattern.
Viltry was checking to his starboard. The bats had gone that way, and logic said that was where they’d come back in from. He jumped in his harness as two Thunderbolts power dived past his starboard wingtip, burning around west.
Greta
rocked in their slip wake.
“Where the hell were you, top cover?” he voxed.
“No chatter!” he heard Egsor snarl back.
“Six! Six! Six o’clock!” It was Orsone in the tail, and his yells were echoed by the tail gunners of all the other machines. The bats had swept out wide and come in from the rear for their second pass.
“Tail gunner engaging!” Orsone screamed over the vox, and Viltry felt the shudder of the tail-mount unloading. A moment later and the top turret, now screwed over to face the rear, joined in. The twin heavy discharge did slight but strange things to
Greta’s
ride, and Viltry compensated expertly. Then the bats rushed by them. The tail guns ceased fire, the targets having crossed beyond their traverse limit, but the top turret continued blazing as it rotated, following the pass. As the rear ends of the Hell Razors, bright with full burn, swept ahead and away from them, the nose turret joined in too.
“Cease! Cease fire!” Viltry cried out. The bats were at three kilometres now and extending, pulling out of reasonable range. He could still just see their engine flares as they broke, scattering into a fan.
Damn, Viltry thought. Now they’ll be making individual passes.
There was a screech over the vox. Viltry looked around desperately, and saw one of the Navy Marauders in the adjacent diamond begin to fall out of formation. It seemed as if its engines could no longer hold its weight in the air. A gout of black smoke coughed from one engine, then flames took fierce hold of the entire leading edge of the port wing. The bats had scored on their second pass.
Trailing flame, the Marauder began to steepen in its descent.
“Eject! Eject!” he heard Egsor yelling to the distant crew.
The dipping Marauder suddenly shuddered and blew up. Its bomb load made a vast fire cloud in the clear sky, jetting debris out in a whirl of scrap. The main part of the nose, burning like a comet, arced away down towards the desert.
“Here they come!” Naxol cried. At least the nose gunner had shown the good sense to keep scanning, instead of watching the Marauder die.
Three Hell Razors were coming in on a frontal attack. Their weapons crackled and flashed brilliantly. Naxol and Gaize opened up on the nearest as it came in across them. Naxoi’s meaty lasfire chopped the air behind it, but Gaize had held a fine deflection. The bat as good as flew into his bolter stream. It came apart in a drizzle of metal shards and flame, its fore-wings separating and spinning out like broken plate-glass. Whipping over and under as it tumbled away, the starboard wing nearly hit
Greta’s
tail.
Viltry sucked in his breath at the near miss. “Good one, Gaize,” he voxed.
Get Them All Back
and one of the Navy machines had also scored good hits. A Hell Razor went into an uncontrolled spin and fell out of the sky, and another pulled a wobbly turn out and began to limp away west, making smoke.
But it wasn’t over yet. Another Navy Marauder had been hit and had fallen out of formation, unable to keep up. And
K for Killshot
had taken vector duct damage. The bats were coming in again, and the auspex showed that another wave had now joined them. Over in the western sky, Viltry saw a starburst flash as a Thunderbolt detonated.
His hands were shaking again. Fate’s wheel. Fate’s wheel.
Turning closer every moment.
Theda MAB North, 12.01
Noisy, chattering, the streams of Commonwealth personnel flooded out of the station towards the waiting transports. All of them carried kitbags, or hefted crates in teams. They joked in the sunny air, throwing wisecracks and jibes around.
It was a mask, a front. Bravado. Darrow knew that. In a few hours, these men would be on their way to rear-line postings down the coast, possibly across the sea. Friendships would be broken, comrades parted from one another. Out on the concourse, hundreds of silent Navy men waited around the transports that had just brought them in, ready to move in and take over as soon as the Commonwealth bodies were gone. Darrow glanced at them. Some smoked, others basked in the sun, stretched out on the rockcrete. Many stared, flat, unfriendly stares.
If you’d done this properly, you know… really fought for your world properly, we wouldn’t have to be here.
That’s why Darrow’s fellow staffers and crew were laughing and joking. They didn’t want to have to look at the Imperials, hovering like vultures over a corpse.
Darrow felt like dropping his own kitbag and returning the stares.
Supercilious bastards! You think we wanted this? You think we’re grateful you show up now? Go screw yourselves. We fought for Enothis, we bled, we died. Thanks to us, it’s still here to fight for. We did the hard work, now you sweep in to get the glory. And so help me, you had better get the glory. You had better win, or… or…
“Darrow! Darrow!”
He turned. Major Heckel had appeared on the station steps, waving at him. He made his way back through the mass of personnel to reach him.
“Congratulations, sir,” he said.
“What?”
“I saw you’d been posted to Quarry Flight.”
A muscle under Heckel’s left eye ticked slightly. “Yes. Ah, yes. Lucky me. They’ve got to keep us old hands going, I suppose.”
Heckel made a high-pitched little laugh, a false sound. His eye ticked again.
“You wanted me, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” said Heckel. He reached into the pocket of his flight coat and produced a docket wafer. It was sealed. Darrow’s name was printed on the flap. Darrow noticed how badly Heckel’s hand was quaking as he passed it to him. “This is for you.”
Darrow tore open the wafer.
“Eads had it sent down. I think he was feeling sorry for you. It’s not active as such, but he says he hopes it will do.”
“He’s… he’s posting me to Operations. Effective immediate.” Darrow grinned. Heckel was right, it wasn’t active, but it would mean he’d stay at Theda, and be part of the real thing.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Just the messenger,” shrugged Heckel.
“You put in a good word, I’m sure.”
Heckel shrugged again, but he was grinning this time. Then his expression grew serious. “Just between you and me, Darrow. The enemy got airspace reach into the Lida Valley yesterday. The schedule’s really moved up. The Navy’s decided it needs local experts who are familiar with the topography to guide them, so they asked Eads to consult at Operations. He told me he wanted a few good bodies to assist him. I suggested you, and a couple of others who’d been moved to reserve.”
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.”
Heckel nodded. “Just do a good job, Darrow.”
Darrow put down his pack and saluted his former leader.
“Darrow,” Heckel said. His face had a strange, wistful look. “Darrow, do you think they know I’m sorry?”
“Who, sir?”
“The cadets. Hunt Flight. Emperor save us, so many of them died.”
“You did everything you could, sir.”
Heckel breathed deeply. “You know, Darrow? That’s just what I’m afraid of.”
Heckel picked up his pack, patted Darrow on the arm, and hurried away towards the transports.
Theda MAB South, 15.34
“She’s jinxed, isn’t she?” Milan Blansher said.
“Who’s that, sir?” asked Hemmen, the chief fitter. In the shadow of the great hangar, his team was working on the refit of Espere’s Thunderbolt. The air was popping with the rattle of power ratchets.
“Her,” Jagdea said, pointing at the wounded machine.
“Serial Nine-Nine?” Hemmen shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly comment, mamzel commander.”
Jagdea shook her head and led Blansher out of the bam. The field was clear apart from Umbra Flight’s birds, and a thundering pack of Commonwealth Interceptors taxiing for take-off.
“Espere?” Blansher asked.
“Forget it. He’ll be out for months. And even with augmetics, he’s a wreck.”
“So we’re a man down?”
“Yes. I asked Navy reserve, but they said every able pilot was committed. Unless there’s suddenly a bird down and a pilot recovered, or a bird malfunctioned. God-Emperor, Mil, this warfront’s stretched really thin. Every man, every plane, thrown in. I think this could be the big one.”
“What do you mean?”
“The decider. The Archenemy’s got the Crusade trapped, over-extended. They’re attacking here and at Herodor. That’s the latest news. Either planet falls, and the Crusade line gets beheaded. Snip, good night. Goodnight Warmaster Macaroth. Goodnight us, and goodnight Crusade. If our line breaks here, they’ll be all over us like a bodybag.”
“We’d better fly our balls off then,” Blansher said.
She smiled. “Speak for yourself.”
“How’s Marquall?”
She shrugged. “Still trying to heave the soles of his feet out through his mouth in the shower block. I thought about slipping him some detox tabs, but then I had a bad attack of what the hell. A crippling hangover is the Emperor’s way of making us remember our mistakes.”
“He blames himself for Espere?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Should he?” Blansher asked.
Jagdea shrugged. Her reply was totally drowned out by the squadron of prop planes taking to the air. “Say again?” said Blansher.
“Marquall screwed up. He flew like a virgin and made just about every mistake going. Espere was covering him. So, yes… he should. But he’s also a decent pilot. I know that. We need him, and we need him back, confident, learning from his mistakes.”
“I still don’t know how you trawled him in,” Blansher said.
“Doesn’t matter. I had help. Not the sort of help I wanted, but… Well, it worked.”
Blansher shrugged.
“I’ll tell you one day,” Jagdea smiled.
“I’m up at 18.30, I believe,” Blansher said.
“And Larice is taking a unit four out at 21.40. I’ll stand down until Marquall is compos mentis.”
“Good flying,” he said, and jogged away to check on his machine.
I wish people would stop saying that, Jagdea thought.
Palace Pier, 15.50
Night had arrived early and a wan darkness had settled over the sea. It looked as if a storm was brewing. Afternoon trade had been bad all week, and now with a gloomy pall spreading in the west, it had dried up altogether. Beqa sent Latrice home, and closed up early. It would make a change. A few extra hours’ sleep.
She was locking the cafe door when the man appeared. There was a brisk wind coming off the foreshore, tugging at her coat and buffeting her, so she hadn’t heard him walk up.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, jumping. It was the sad-faced pilot who’d never tasted shellfish. He was huddled in a heavy leather coat.
“Are you closed?” he asked.
“Ah, yes,” she said, brushing wind-tugged hair out of her eyes. “Sorry. There was no one around this afternoon. Didn’t like the look of the weather, I suppose.”
He glanced up at the sky, as if he hadn’t really noticed. The first few spats of rain were falling.
“I understand,” he said. “I got a decent walk at least. Good afternoon, mamzel.”
“Wait,” she called after him. Beqa shook her head at herself. She was too soft for her own good. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“A little,” he admitted.
She unlocked the door. “Come on. I’ll make you something.”
“But you’re closed.”
“I can open again.”
She had him sit at the table he’d chosen the day before while she went behind the counter, turned on the water heater and started looking through the pantry bins. Viltry noticed she didn’t change the card in the window. The cafe was still shut to others.
“This is very kind of you,” he called.
“It’s no problem. You don’t like fish, do you?”
“I don’t really know.”
“You’re in luck. We have some salt-ham today.”
The storm closed in, turning the sky as dark as twilight. Beqa turned on the cafe’s oil-lamps. Rain began to patter and drum against the windows and the skylights, running down them in torrents so they seemed to be melting. The whole pier creaked gently as the sea stirred around it.
She’d never been out at the pier-end during a storm before. It felt unnerving, and half of her wished she’d simply been firm with him and gone home. The whole place felt exposed and vulnerable, alone amid the turbulent elements. It was like riding aboard some fragile craft though a maelstrom.
He didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered.
When she brought his food and drink, she sat down with him.
“You’re an aviator, sir?”
“Yes.” He took a bite. “This is really very good. I don’t think I’d realised how hungry I was.”
“Imperial Navy?” she asked.
He shook his head and wiped his lips with a napkin. “Sort of, I suppose. Imperial Phantine Air Corps. My name’s Viltry. Oskar Viltry.”
“Beqa Mayer.” He held out his hand and shook hers courteously.
“Thank you for your hospitality, mamzel. And act of kindness towards a stranger to your world.”
“Seeing as you’ve come here to risk your life fighting for my world, I think a plate of ham and bread is the least I can do.”
He stopped eating suddenly and frowned. “I… I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
“I was here yesterday.”
“No, somewhere else.”
“The templum, early the other day. You held the door for me.”
“Yes, that’s it.” An especially fierce gust of wind rattled the windows and threw the rain against the glass with renewed vigour.
“I suppose this place will stand up to a storm?” Viltry asked.
“I think it’d take a lot to bring the palace down,” she replied.
It was another hour before the storm abated enough for them to want to risk a dash back towards the town. Refilling his cup, she chatted idly, to no real point, as if simply letting go of conversation that loneliness had dammed up inside her. Viltry was content just to listen. His day had been terrible: the savage air-brawl, the panic and fear. The bats had locked them up so long, they’d finally been forced to ditch their payloads and turn back on the long, exposed slog for home. No target destroyed. No target even seen. Just a portion of the Dish of Sand heat-fused into glass. Halo had lost no one, but five of its machines had been damaged, and several crewmen hurt.
K for Killshot
had been unable to do more than crawl home. Part of its pay-load had been hung, and Viltry feared that even if it got back, it might stumble on landing and be annihilated by its own munitions. But they’d made it. Three of Egsor’s wing, and two Thunderbolt escorts, however, had not.