Some aviators dealt with the pressure of a combat tour by drinking, or hedonistic escapes, others by sounding off about what had happened to anybody in the crew room who’d listen. That had never been Viltry’s way. These days, he was afraid that if he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
But listening to the woman talk eased him. It was like an antidote to the tension of combat. It gave him a touch of perspective, reminded him the universe was not simply him, harnessed into a G-chair, waiting for Fate’s wheel to turn. Her life was evidently hard. She was forced to work two shifts: here during the day, and overnight at the munitions manufactory. She was worried about the tide of the war. Fresh food was getting harder to come by. What if the cafe was forced to close? She had a brother called Eido, who was serving in the land army. She’d not heard from him for over three months, since the fighting at the gates of the Trinity Hives. He’d be home soon, she was convinced. She lit a candle for him every day.
“I light three: one for Gart, one for Eido and one for whoever else needs it.”
Viltry smiled. “I’ll remember that. Pardon me, but who’s Gart?”
“My husband, Commander Viltry. He was a pilot officer in the Commonwealth PDF. He was lost over the desert the winter before last.”
“I’m sorry, mamzel. Is he listed missing?”
She shook her head. “I can assure myself my brother is alive, because I’ve not had proof otherwise. But Gart is dead.”
The Commonwealth had given her a widow’s pension, but that had dried up when the war-effort took its latest bad turn. Hence the two jobs. The lack of sleep.
Viltry noticed that the rain had eased. There was a lightness back in the sky. She would be late for her shift if they didn’t take advantage of the break.
She locked the cafe doors, and they hurried down the wet boardwalk towards the town, where the evening lamps were coming on.
Theda MAB South, 08.00
“I’m reporting as ordered,” Darrow told the Navy guardsman under the adamantite portico. The guardsman looked at Darrow’s docket wafer and nodded him through.
From the outside, Operations could have been mistaken for a Ministorum chapel built in the muscular Early Ornate style. But the many soaring spires and finials were copper and electrophyte-sleeved detector columns, the braced flying buttresses housed pneumatic blast dampers, and where stained glass windows might have glowed, there were deep shutters of loricated steel. Operations dominated the north end of the field area, surrounded on three sides by metal forests of vox masts, auspex towers and modar arrays, where the ground was baked dry and the air smelled cancerously of ozone and electromagnetics.
Inside, a vaulted and soaring atrium lit by caged lumin strips led to the various control areas. Men and women in the dark uniforms of Navy and the Departmento Tacticus bustled to and fro. Vox announcements called for detail rotations. Darrow followed the enamel wall signs, and made his way to a busy staircase that led underground. The main part of Operations was buried in deep, rockcrete bunkers below the ground.
Down below it was cool, and the air was damp and recirculated. He shivered and wished he’d worn his flight coat, despite the hasty patching he’d made to the sleeve.
There was a series of blast doors and another checkpoint, where he had to wait in line under the eyes of three burly guardsmen while a Munitorum servitor checked his papers, conducted biometric tests and issued him with a duty pass.
To Darrow’s surprise, Eads was waiting for him at the main hatch.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” Darrow said, saluting.
“Call that a salute?” Eads said. “Welcome to Operations, Darrow. Stick close by me today as you learn the ropes. Don’t be afraid to ask questions; there’s a lot to know. If I need you to shut up, I’ll tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eads turned and used his sensor cane to trace a path into the chamber. Darrow walked with him.
“Expect to be referred to as ‘junior’, Darrow. Even by me. You’re not a pilot cadet down here. You’re a junior assistant flight controller.”
Darrow was about to ask a question, but Eads reached out and squeezed his wrist. They had just entered the chamber, and a hush had fallen.
Darrow gazed around him. Central Operations was a vast rotunda, three floors deep. There were two tiers of consoles around the walls, the upper one accessible by an iron walkway. These console stations were manned by Navy operators, some of whom were servitors plugged directly into the interface sockets of the displays. Above them was an observation deck where senior officers gathered to look down on proceedings. In the centre of the chamber was the principal hololithic display, which projected a flickering tactical animation six metres into the air from a wide, brass-edged base unit. Around that stood a ring of semi-opaque glass screens onto which the modar returns were projected. A stern-looking placement operator stood ready at each screen, with a stylus in one hand and an eraser in the other.
Around them lay a further ring of primary control consoles, massive codifier stations that sprouted from the floor like standing stones. Each one, panelled with wood, its instruments turned in brass, had its own valve-screen pict display and hololithic repeater.
All the personnel present currently stood or sat silently, heads slightly bowed.
A rector from the Navy chaplaincy, imposing in his selpic blue robes and sable ruff, was intoning a rite of blessing upon the station. As he spoke, one hand on his breast, the other tucked behind his back, tech-priests moved around the room, anointing the stations and offering holy water from gold ampullas to those personnel in need of personal benediction. Darrow noticed most received it, even the higher ranking staffers.
“Let this day be profitable and successful,” the rector said. “Let the strength of will and the clarity of sight that is the province of the most high and glorious Imperator, he that is the God-Emperor of all Mankind, inform your work this day. May his glory be everlasting, and his beacon of enlightenment shine to us all in the darkness. For the Golden Throne, everlasting, and in his name’s sake, let his will be done.”
The rector made the sign of the aquila across his breast, and everybody did the same.
The deck officer stood, nodded to the rector, and announced, “Day shift begins, 255, 773.M41.”
At once, activity resumed. A sudden wash of voices, of un-muted vox channels. Deft hands chattered over metal keys. Eads nodded at Darrow to follow him.
As a flight controller, Eads’s station was one of the primary control consoles. Darrow helped him into the high-backed seat and stowed the sensor cane where Eads could find it.
“Principal cortical plug and tech-reader link, please,” Eads said as he settled himself. Darrow glanced around, and unhooked the two leads from a bracket on the console’s side. He handed them to Eads. Eads read the raised identifier stamps on the plugs with the tips of his fingers, then inserted the cortical plug into the dermal socket behind his left ear. The other lead, from which withered parchment labels dangled, went into a second dermal socket under his hairline at the base of his skull. Eads winced slightly as it went in.
The console came to immediate life. The hololith display lit up and began to rotate. The pict screen shimmered into life, showing a scrolling menu of tight-beamed data. Darrow knew that Eads was now seeing all this for himself, in his mind. Eads began to review the details.
Darrow looked around again. Each of the flight controllers was attended by at least one junior aide. All of the other controllers were sighted, although one had bulky augmetic optics, but many had enhanced their overview with cortical links.
“Vox mic, please,” Eads said.
Darrow unhooked that too, played out the flex, and helped Eads to fit it around his ear so the bead was in place and the wire stalk set by his lips.
“This is Eads, 7513,” Eads said softly. “I am now on station.” He was answered by a murmur of vox responses.
His fingers began to glide over the mechanical keyboard. The data on the screen altered. The cortical plug was simulating a version of the console in Eads’s head so he could operate it.
“Climate plot, please,” Eads said to the link. A swollen 3D image bloomed across the hololith. “Tactical… and quadrant operations.” More changes, more overlays. Hard yellow lines showing aircraft tracks, dotted red lines of mission sequences, winking green runes positioning the machines themselves.
“There’s a spare headset if you want to listen,” Eads remarked.
Darrow took the opportunity. What he heard as he wired up was a nonsense of human and machine voices, digital transmissions, and binary codes and atmospherics, which sucked and roared behind the voices.
“Use the dial there to select,” Eads pointed. “It’ll seem overwhelming at first, but you’ll learn to differentiate and fine tune. For the next two hours, we’re assigned flight control for two fighter units: Umbra Flights Four-One and Four-Two. There are the mission parameters, on screen.”
Suddenly nervous, Darrow read the details, trying not to miss anything. Two intercept units, four machines in each. Routing down across the Peninsula to the headwaters of the Lida, hunting intruders. Time of launch, 08.15.
He looked at the brass chronometer mounted above the console top. It read 08.14.
Theda MAB South, 08.15
“Straps tight?” Racklae shouted, barely audible over the rising howl of the fanjets.
Marquall nodded. Racklae gave him a finger-and-thumb “O”, then ordered the ground crew clear. They jumped off, the last of the hoses disconnected and stowed, rolling the primer cart back. One fitter carried the yellow boarding ladder away.
Perched beside the cockpit, Racklae tapped his ears and mouth.
Marquall nodded again. He keyed the vox.
“Test, test,” he said. “Umbra Eight, Umbra Eight, am I loud?”
“Umbra Eight, this is Lead. You’re loud and live. Okay there, Marquall?”
“Yes, ma’am. Lights are green, I repeat green. Ready to lift.”
“Stand by, Eight.”
Marquall made the sign of the aquila, then looked up at Racklae. He showed him a thumb. The chief fitter grinned, saluted him, and closed the canopy. Immediately, the sound changed. The wail of the jets was dulled, but Marquall was suddenly contained in a resonating box of ultrasonic vibrations.
Marquall checked the canopy lock, then made a gesture almost like a genuflection to his chief. Racklae saw it, nodded, then jumped down and hurried over into cover behind the revetment wall of the pad enclosure.
“Umbra Eight. Locked and ready.”
“Got you, Eight.”
“Umbra Ten, ready.”
“Umbra Seven. Fit.”
“Stand by,” Jagdea said again. “Four-Two are lifting out ahead of us.”
There was a warble of voices across the vox-channel, then a wailing rush that was loud even with the canopy down and helmet on. From hardstands nearby, four Thunderbolts hoisted themselves up vertically into the air. The space beneath each one was a heat-distorted wash of vectored thrust. Blansher, Asche, Cordiale and Ranfre; Umbra Two: Four, Eleven and Twelve respectively.
On Blansher’s expert lead, they began to climb and move forward as their vector ducts gently swung around. In neat formation, they rose, gaining speed. As they crossed away down the length of the field, their primary exhausts lit up hot and yellow as full thrust switched through them. Already, they were receding, climbing higher, accelerating.
“Operations, this is Four-One Leader,” Marquall heard Jagdea say. “Permission to rise.”
“Four-One Leader, this is Operations. You are cleared for immediate launch. Good hunting.”
“Four-One, this is Lead. Let’s go.”
Marquall opened the throttle and felt his machine quiver, as if it had become enraged. Maximum thrust. He felt the gentle wobble as
The Smear
left the stand. Even though it expended masses of fuel reserve, Marquall preferred vector take-offs. He hated ramp launches, and the bludgeoning smack of the rocket boost. He was thankful that no ramps had yet been erected at Theda.
He glanced around, compensating for the wallow of his rising Bolt. To his left, Umbra Ten was coming up. Marquall could almost hear Zemmic fiddling with his rosary of lucky charms as his bird rose. To his right, Jagdea lifted to vertical, and Clovin, two stands down from her. Forty metres up, perfect station keeping.
“Wait for it,” Jagdea’s voice cautioned. Blansher favoured the slow, gentlemanly climb from vertical to full forward, but Jagdea preferred the hammer start. The fitter crews knew it. They’d already hit the bunkers.
“Wait…”
Fifty metres.
“On me, extend, full thrust,” Jagdea ordered.
Her machine roared forward, crossing the field at fifty metres, ducts violently thrown to level flight. Clovin gunned after her, then Zemmic. Marquall nursed his throttle and then bulleted after them.
The ground shot away underneath them like speeded-up pict images. The punch kicked Marquall back into his seat. At full burn, they’d cleared the deadlands beyond the field and had already reached close to six hundred kph before they formed up and began to rise.
“Four-One Leader, we have cleared the field. Climbing now to five thousand. Heading south-west, ten-eight-four.”
“Ten-eight-four, copy Leader,” Operations replied. “Nice launch. Maybe you can apologise to our eardrums later.”
“Copy that, Operations. Fast up, fast away. That’s the way we do things where I come from.”
“Understood. What else do you do where you come from?”
“We kill bats.”
“Copy that, Leader. Good to know. Make your level nine thousand and turn south-west eleven-eight-five.”
“Eleven-eight-five. Understood. Four-One, check in.”
“Four-One, Seven. On your lead.”
“Four-One, Ten. At your heels, to port. Nice day for it.”
“Clear as a bell, Zemmic. Count your lucky charms.”
Marquall adjusted his mask. “Four-One, Eight. Right with you.”
“Stay close, Marquall. This is going to be a breeze.” It was. He knew it was. He was going to make sure it was.