“Which is?”
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“A microscopic water wyrm. The lake is lousy with them. If they enter the bloodstream, say
through the mouth or nose or tear ducts, they infest the brainstem, multiplying at a prodigious rate,
bursting blood vessels, severing neural pathways and eventually causing such related symptoms as
an inability to remember your own name, an inability to speak, an inability to regulate your own
bowel movements and an inability to live.”
“Okay,” Marquall said.
“Just so you know.”
“I was trying to wash off the… the scops.”
“Lake mud.”
“Pardon me?”
Kautas ran his fingers back through his own matted locks. “Use lake mud. In your hair. That
soon sends the scops off.”
“Okay.”
Marquall paused.
“Look, I want to say… I’m really sorry.”
“About what?” the ayatani asked.
“Going into your infirmary like that. Assuming.”
Kautas shrugged.
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“Like I could actually, possibly give a shit,” the priest said, and walked away up the empty
beach.
Lake Gocel FSB, 17.20
Bree Jagdea was compiling reports in her habitent when the runner came to her.
“Message wafer, mamzel,” he said, holding it out.
“Commander,” she corrected, taking it from him.
She unfolded the wafer and read it. “Anything interesting?” Blansher asked, wandering over
from his own tent.
The wafer read:
To Jagdea, Commander, Phantine XX
I thought I should inform you that, at around 13.00 hours this day, Captain Guis Gettering of the
Apostles was lost in action. I think it appropriate that your boy might now be allowed to name his
bird just as he likes. Sincerely, Seekan, Wing Co.
“God-Emperor,” Jagdea sighed. “Another one gone.”
Lake Gocel FSB, 21.12
“How does that look?” Racklae asked. He pulled off the last of the masking strips and tipped the
nearest work lamp so that Marquall could see. Wisp-moths furiously circled the blue light of the
lamp.
“That’s nice. That’s great,” Marquall said.
Along serial Nine-Nine’s green flank he could now see the Phantine eagle crest, and the stencil,
“Double Eagle”.
“All right?”
“Really, God-Emperor bless you. That’s just right.”
“Not going to get a smack in the mourn for it?” Racklae grinned, wiping his hands on a rag.
“As I understand it, no,” said Marquall. He patted the side of his machine. “First flight
tomorrow,” he said. He’d flown Nine-Nine already, of course, bringing it down to Gocel FSB. What
Marquall meant was first combat sortie.
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“We’re going to get her ramp-ready, soon as we’ve done the last check over.”
Marquall nodded to the fitter. “Thanks,” he said and walked off the pad, backing so he could
enjoy a last look at his bird. It was framed in a little cocoon of light under the heavy shrouds. All
around, night had settled on the forest: a full, deep darkness punctured only slightly by faint lights
from the camp.
“Looking good, killer.”
Marquall glanced around. Larice Asche stood in the trees at the edge of the matt-pad.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Marquall smiled.
She walked over to him, and produced a bottle of amasec from the map pocket of her flight
baggies.
“Better baptise it, for luck.” She took a deep swig and then passed the bottle to him. Marquall
drank too.
“Here’s to Double Eagle,” Asche said. Her eyes were bright in the darkness, and there was
relish in her voice. “Things are coming pretty good for you, huh, killer? An infamous rocket-assist
evasion, your first confirmed, a personalised bird… You’re really getting in the game. You got the
shine, Marquall. The aura that says you’re gonna go far.”
“I guess,” he smiled, a little nervous. He took another swig and handed the bottle back to her.
“Maybe my luck is changing at last.”
“Oh, I know it is,” she said, and stepped up to him, her mouth against his. Her enthusiasm took
him by surprise.
Racklae jumped down from Nine-Nine’s wing and began searching in the tool trunks for a
number three rotator.
“Hey chief,” said one of his men.
Racklae looked up, nodding, and followed the man’s gaze, locating the two entwined figures in
the shadows of the path. He snorted a laugh.
“And the kid was so sure he wasn’t going to get a smack in the mouth…”
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DAY 262
The Makanites, 06.47
The upper faces of the cliffs above them lit up russet in the dawn, and long shadows streaked the
dust. It was cold and the air was eerily quiet.
“What day is it?” Viltry asked.
“Two-sixty-two,” LeGuin replied.
“I’ve lost… three days.”
“I think you must’ve hit your head pretty hard. We patched you up as best we could.”
“You found me?”
LeGuin leaned back against Line of Death’s tracks, and took a sip from his water bottle. “Found
your bird. My convoy elements had seen a bunch of trouble ahead. A gorge area. An ambush. Time
we got there, it was all done. Lot of mess. We came on your plane belly down in the desert south of
the gorge. You were lying in the sand about fifty metres from it.”
“I don’t remember ejecting.”
“Thrown clear, maybe?”
“The rest of my crew…?”
LeGuin shrugged. “Sorry. I’m guessing they didn’t make it. Your machine was burned out. We
took a look, saw a couple of bodies. I don’t think we missed anything still alive.”
Viltry nodded.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Not yours either, I should imagine.” You have no idea, Viltry thought to himself. “What’s your
name?” he asked. “LeGuin, Captain Robart, 8th Pardus Armoured.”
“Oskar Viltry, 21st Wing, Phantine Air.”
“Don’t get many of your sort down this way,” LeGuin joked.
“You’re on the home haul?”
“Oh, yes. Part of Humel’s great land armada. We’ve been to the gates of the Trinity Hives, and
now we’re marching home.”
“What was it like?”
“Trinity? A mess. A bloody mess. We thought we’d roll in and take the place in a week. They
had other ideas. And serious reinforcements from offworld. They slaughtered the first waves. Along
the farm terraces, the commercial highway, the vapour mills. The sky was black. Fire everywhere.
You’ve never seen anything like it.”
LeGuin wiped a sand midge off his cheek. “So we fell back, and that turned into a retreat. Right
back up through the desert, hunted all the way. I tell you this. Whatever kind of hell we found at the
Trinity Gates, it was nothing compared to the hell we’ve been grinding through out here ever since.
Heat. Low water, low fuel, low ammo, low food. Breakdowns. Sickness. Men dying of untreated
wounds. Murderous terrain. Constant attacks. There were times I thought we’d never make it.”
“There’s still a way to go,” Viltry said.
“I know, but we’re in the mountains now. Two days, Emperor willing, and we’ll be breaking flat
ground on the north side.”
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“Some elements have already,” Viltry said. “Before I… before I left last time, there was news.
Convoys entering the Lida Valley, and up into the Peninsula. I think some may have cut through to
the west too.”
“That’s good,” said LeGuin. “That’s good to hear. Throne of Earth, we’re not done yet.”
“Will you go back?” Viltry asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The air operation I was part of. Serious amounts of air power, mostly Navy, brought in to keep
the enemy busy and slow him down. To buy you men time to get home. But we can’t hold them off
indefinitely. I mean, that’s the point. We’re just flying a desperate holding action. There’s still a war
to win here.”
“Then we’ll just have to win it, won’t we?” said LeGuin. He got to his feet. “Come on. Day’s
breaking. We should get started. Get a good lead before the real heat settles in.”
He woke his crew, who were sound asleep in the shadows of the tank. Only in the cool of the
night was it possible to get some rest. He sent them off to rouse the other crews. All down the
narrow pass, armour and transporters were parked and silent.
Engines began to turn over. Voices lifted into the air.
Another day in the great retreat had begun.
Lake Gocel FSB, 08.43
In full flight armour, Van Tull, Del Ruth and Marquall arrived for the preliminary briefing, which
Jagdea held around the camp table outside her habitent. It was a fresh, bright day, with a breeze
coming in off the lake, and strong shafts of sunlight beaming down through the shimmer nets,
making everything a checkerboard of light and dark. Blansher came along, and brought a pitcher of
caffeine from the commissary. For some reason, Larice Asche turned up too, dressed in flight
baggies and a vest top. She had a smile about her, but Jagdea didn’t really give her presence much
thought.
She waited to begin until 08.45 had ticked by. Right on cue, they heard the simultaneous thump
of three ramp launches. The Raptors had first slot that morning, punching up into the blue.
“Order of the day is combat air patrols running on staggered overlap,” Jagdea said. “Three
Raptors, three of us, and so on, through the day, six machines aloft at any time. That means you’ll
probably be up again before sunset. It’s going to be tiring, so keep it steady. Overnight picture is
this: the enemy is still hitting the coast hard. The word from the Peninsula is bad. They hit Theda for
the first time yesterday. But unless a bombing formation comes-into our catchment, that’s not our
concern right now. Large sections of the land retreat are starting to come clear of the mountains. In
the next few days, a major evac is going to gear up, getting them across to the northern coast.
Recons show several of those columns coming this way, intending to cross the Saroja west of Gocel.
They are being hunted.”
“Land or air?” asked Van Tull.
“Both. Mission profile is threefold. If you locate a friendly column, make it the epicentre of your
patrol. Stay with it, give it what protection it needs while fuel lasts. If you sight hostiles, engage and
prosecute. If you identify enemy land forces, you may also engage. You’ll be carrying rockets for
that purpose. Targets of opportunity, Umbra. Get out there and see what needs doing.”
“What if we find an enemy carrier?” asked Del Ruth.
“Use your head. Get a fix and get out. We’ll call in Marauders. Likewise, if you find a bombing
formation up there, or you’re outnumbered more than two to one, get on the vox and yell for
support. I expect heroism, not stupidity.”
She paused. “Questions? No? Good, let’s go.”
Jagdea and Blansher followed the three pilots to their birds. Jagdea saw how Larice Asche hung
around Marquall, laughing with him. At the edge of Nine-Nine’s pad, Asche kissed Marquall hard.
94
“Looks like Larice has made another kill,” said Blansher.
“Marquall? That’s a surprise.”
“Not really. His first confirmed, some heroics. He’s hot stuff right now. She always goes for
that.”
“She ever go for you?” Jagdea asked.
“A gentleman is always discreet,” Blansher replied.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Mil? A little miffed you never caught her eye? What is it, an age thing?”
He smiled at her tolerantly. “If you must know, she hit on me about eighteen months ago. The
Urdesh tour. That afternoon I splashed those three Talons.”
“What happened?”
“She had me in her sights, tone lock. But I broke, rolled out and got home safely.”
“She not your type?”
“She’s perfectly lovely. It’s her motivation that doesn’t appeal.”
A hooter sounded. Marquall was ready to go. They moved in behind the blast shields.
Racklae closed the canopy and shot Marquall a grin. Clamped into his mask and helmet,
Marquall nodded back. He adjusted his air-mix and settled back. Throne, how he hated ramp
launches. He felt sweat trickle inside his suit. He watched the diode counter marking down. Systems
on. Hypergolic intermix valves open. Operations chatter on the vox. Rocket was primed.
Buzzer. Five seconds. The shimmer nets began to crank open, revealing the soaring blue sky.
Three seconds. Thumb on the fire stud. Two.
With a crackling, gut-shaking roar, Del Ruth fired into the air, then Van Tull. Then…
Marquall looked around in dismay. He’d pressed the stud. He was sure he had. He pressed it
again. Nothing. He swore.
“Umbra Eight, status?”
“Malfunction!” he called back. “Restart…”
Again, nothing. Red runes suddenly lit up across his instrumentation. A warning tone sounded.
“Crap!” Marquall snarled.
“Say again? Status?”
“Rocket malfunction!”
“Understood, Umbra Eight. Observe emergency procedures. Stabilise your intermix and activate
suppression jets.”
“Yes, Operations.”
He hit several switches, disarming his weapons and payload, sealing his tanks and injecting a
neutralising chemical flow into the rocket tanks so that the primed and volatile chemical propellants
couldn’t accidentally light or trigger late. It would take hours to wash the tanks out and recharge
them.
“Umbra Eight made safe,” he voxed.
Only then did the fitters emerge and hurry to the plane. Inspection hatches were opened, cables
hitched in to drain off fuel via the tank cocks. A power lifter and a squad of armourers moved in to
unload the wing-mounts and stow them in hardened caissons.
A ladder went up at the machine’s side.
Marquall popped the canopy. “Thanks for frigging nothing, Nine-Nine,” he hissed, and hauled
himself out.
When Marquall hit the matting, Racklae was beside himself.
“I’m so sorry, sir, I’m so sorry. We thought she was four-A. Not a sign of anything wrong.”
“Jinxes don’t show up on your diagnostics, do they?” Marquall said bitterly. He could see
Racklae was mortified.
95
His fitters, however, were not. Many were trying to hide their laughter. Nearby, fitters from the
409th, and other base personnel, were not even bothering to conceal their amusement. His face
burning, Marquall heard mocking laughter. There was nothing more amusing, apparently, than a
cocksure young pilot, on his first combat sortie, in a newly and boldly decorated bird, getting his
pride punctured.
He was a laughing stock.
He strode off the pad.
“Bad luck, Marquall,” Jagdea said. “We’ll get you up again this afternoon.”
“Yes, mamzel,” he snapped, walking past her.
He went towards Asche, who was watching the farce. There was laughter in the air still.
Marquall spread his hands in a wide shrug.
“What can I say? How crap is this? Maybe we can catch that breakfast together after all.”
Larice Asche stared at him contemptuously. “Another time, killer,” she said, and marched away
