river and road.
After that, no more raiders came down the valley for a while. LeGuin shook Viltry by the hand.
Viltry was breathing hard, pulse racing. For the first time since G for Greta had been brought
down, he felt as if he had a purpose. A worth. He’d helped keep the bridge clear.
The feeling tasted a little like the confidence he’d been slowly winning back on Enothis. The
reassurance of a point to life that Beqa Mayer’s company had begun to coax back into him.
The crash had torn that confidence away, of course. But now he felt oddly centred. War claimed
men. They died. Machines crashed. Leaders, like Viltry, felt guilt and remorse. It would ever be the
way, for in the galaxy of man, there is only war.
For one tiny but valuable moment, sitting there in the Executioner’s turret, surrounded by the
cheering and bellowing of men he hardly knew, Viltry realised that guilt and remorse would truly be
his to bear if he didn’t make the effort to live. To live, to fight the foes of man, and to make his way
back to find the woman who had shown kindness to a stranger.
The column began to move again. The rain grew heavier, and they pulled the hatches shut. The
valley ahead was an ashen, dispirited place, and there was a great distance to go before they reached
the cities, far away, where the skies were already banded with black fire-smoke.
Lake Gocel FSB, 19.12
In the space of about thirty hours, their alarm bracelets had fired eighteen times. With jarring
regularity, they were stirred from exercise, prep, sleep, meals and standby in order to rush to the
shelters as enemy formations passed through their airspace. Each period of waiting in the gloom of
the dug-outs did nothing to soothe already stretched nerves. There was a fight between two Navy
fitters and some PDF troopers, and a face-to-face row between Ranfre and one of the Raptor pilots,
which was only defused by the calm intervention of Milan Blansher.
The worst argument occurred between Jagdea and Blaguer. The FSB had lofted only three snap
calls in the period, and for the rest of the time it had hidden under its camo at the first sign of an
alert.
“What possible good are we doing?” she was heard shouting.
Blaguer’s argument, supported by Marcinon and the leader of the Lightning wing, was that
Gocel FSB was under-strength as an intercept force and should therefore pick its targets. Seven of
the alerts had been triggered by mass-raid formations of bombers, three or four hundred machines
strong, passing north towards the coast. Gocel’s three wings would barely make a dent in such
formidable numbers, and launches would betray the base’s carefully concealed location. There was
no doubt that a mass-raid force would spare a bomber pack to annihilate the source of the ambushers
if it was discovered.
“Better to stay low, observe concealment discipline, and only respond to targets we can deal
with safely,” Blaguer told her.
“But in another day or two, there’ll be so many bats up there we won’t be flying at all. We’re
supposed to be intercept, so let’s damn well intercept something.”
“You’re talking about a wilful and suicidal approach to the prosecution of this conflict.”
“I’m talking,” growled Jagdea, “about fighting this war instead of sitting it out.”
109
Late in the afternoon, the fourth sortie of the day was permitted. Coastal Operations had
requested urgent data-gathering from its FSBs along the Saroja. There was a pressing need to assess
the disposition of inbound retreat elements so the Munitorum could more effectively accomplish the
mass land evacuation, an operation already beginning at Ezraville and Theda. Operations also hoped
to locate one or more of the enemy land carriers. Given the terrible strength of the raids now being
suffered, it was presumed that several mass carriers were currently established in the Northern
Desert, and Operations clearly longed to be able to steer in Marauder strikes to ease the ferocity of
the bombing campaign.
Word was that not a single town or city along the Littoral and the Peninsula remained
untouched. Quite apart from the huge armour and troop evacuation taking place on the seacoast, a
vast civilian exodus had also begun. Deprived for the most part of sea transit or Munitorum aid, the
citizens of the Littoral were fleeing west towards Ingeburg and the Northern Affiliation in vast,
haphazard caravans. Reports of the public panic and mayhem were filtering through. Several
civilian convoys had been hit. The losses were so distressing, Jagdea couldn’t bring herself to repeat
what she’d read to the pilots and crews of Umbra.
Three recon Lightnings were to go up on a wide track, with a trio of Thunderbolts riding
shotgun. According to dispersal rotation, this escort was due to be provided by the Raptors. Blaguer
himself was slated to fly, but he clearly felt uneasy about what Jagdea might try to pull if he was
absent from the FSB. Blaguer suggested that, if she was so keen to get airborne, the Phantine might
take the job.
Jagdea saw through his ploy, and knew Umbra would be better served if she stayed. She
declined, citing the damage her Thunderbolt had sustained on the last sortie. In truth, it had already
been fully repaired by her devoted techs, but they knew what to tell Blaguer if he asked, and
deliberately removed serial Zero-Two’s cowling to act out a pantomime of repair work. Jagdea sent
Asche in her place, with Waldon and Zemmic.
Marquall could barely hide his disappointment. With Nine-Nine fixed and cleared for flight, he
was overdue a run, and should have been chosen over either Zemmic or Waldon.
After the six machines had launched, and the shimmer nets wound back into place, Jagdea went
to find him. Marquall was in his habitent, playing regicide with Van Tull.
“Got a moment?” she asked.
“I’ve got things to do, ma’am,” Van Tull said, and made himself scarce.
“Get your flight suit on,” she said to Marquall. “I’m moving you up to snap call standby.”
Marquall nodded, but his expression was glum. “I should have gone on the last run. You know
that.”
“Depends what you mean by ‘should’, Vander,” she said. “You and Larice aren’t the best of
friends right now. Keeping you out of each other’s way is probably a good idea.”
Marquall blushed, but it was largely anger. “She—” he began. “I don’t know what I’ve done.”
“You haven’t known Larice long, Vander. Not like me. I know what she’s like. One of the best
pilots it’s been my honour to fly with. But also… headstrong, proud. Full of ambition, and a
compulsion to prove herself all the time. It’s her temperament. To fly the best, get the best score…
and be seen associating with the hottest of her male comrades. You had something there that she
liked the look of. A reputation in the making. But then, that mis-launch.”
“I was a laughing stock.”
“For about ten minutes. I haven’t heard it mentioned since. But Larice… Well, that was a blow
to her pride. She’d made a show of picking you as the Next Big Thing, and there you were suddenly,
the subject of scorn. Now you might wince and shrug it off, but Lance’s pride gets in the way. She
felt some of that laughter was at her expense, and maybe it was.”
“So she just cuts me? Freezes me out? Drops me as fast as she latched onto me?”
“I’m afraid that’s her way,” Jagdea said.
110
“Great,” Marquall said.
“Larice is strong… as a pilot. As a person, she’s unusually fragile. I know it’s easy to say,
Vander, but just move on. There’s a war to wage. Another sortie or two, I’m certain you’ll soon be
getting back in your stride, building on the promise you’ve shown. It wouldn’t surprise me if she
became interested in you all over again.”
Marquall snorted.
“Of course, once bitten…” Jagdea smiled.
By 19.00 hours, as evening began to drape across the lake, the recon flight and its escort went
overdue. Last transmission had been routine, forty minutes before. No vox response. Nothing on the
auspex or modar.
The pilots of Umbra gathered, pacing and chatting nervously. The mood in the camp, under the
claustrophobic spread of the netting, became charged.
“I want to take a flight up. Combat air patrol. Take a look for the missing planes,” Jagdea said to
Commander Marcinon.
“Request denied,” said Marcinon. “For now, at least. Let’s not get precious. They’ve got an hour
left in their tanks.”
“Depending on how they’ve been flying,” said Jagdea. “One serious air brawl, and you can
halve that. I repeat my request.”
They were standing in the Operations room. Circulation fans whined overhead and, by the light
of caged glow-globes, Navy tactical officers sat before flickering, empty displays.
“Anything?” Marcinon called.
“Some activity in quadrants four and nine-two, commander,” reported the chief operator.
“Enemy movements, but way off. Nothing from our flight.”
“They can’t all have been stung,” murmured Oberlitz, the chief of the Lightning wing, the 786th,
giving voice to the private fear they had all been hiding. Oberlitz was a short, square-set man with
thin lips that he licked as a nervous habit. Like Jagdea, he was now anxious about his crews. She
had an ally of sorts against Marcinon and the chief of the Raptors.
“I formally repeat my request,” said Jagdea. “Let me get machines up now before the situation
changes and we’re forced to lie low with the nets sealed.”
Marcinon looked at Blaguer. Blaguer nodded.
“Request granted,” said Marcinon.
Jagdea ran out of the Operations block. The pilots had congregated outside. “Blansher!
Marquall! We’re up! Let’s go!”
Their machines were already on the ramps. By the time the three pilots had suited up and
checked their kit, the fitters had finished pre-flight. Jagdea, Blansher and Marquall ran up to the
matt-decks and the ground crews locked them tight in their cockpits.
“Check back,” Jagdea voxed.
“Two, here. Four-A.”
“This is Eight. Ready for go.” Marquall felt his heart rate climbing. He reached out and stroked
the edge of the main instrument panel. “This time, you hear me, Nine-Nine?” he whispered. This
time, no games. No jinx. Just Vander Marquall and Double Eagle!
The last cues were chopping out from Operations over the vox. The nets began to crank back.
Buzzer. Five seconds. The last of the fitter crew ran to the cover of the blast fences. Marquall sat
his thumb on the “rocket fire” stud.
“You are go, Umbra Flight,” the vox announced. Marquall squeezed the stud and gravity
slammed him back into his seat.
Over the forests, 19.30
111
They climbed into the dusk, their burners the brightest things in the air. The sky was violet, streaked
with three-tenths clouds ten kilometres to the west. Below, the forest sprawled, almost black.
“Make your height nine thousand, cruising,” Jagdea called. “Track is four-four-two.”
“Understood, Lead,” said Blansher.
“Received,” Marquall answered. For the first thirty seconds of the flight, he’d been watching the
board, waiting for a malfunction light to flash on. Nothing. Even the engines sounded sweet.
In the east, against the darkest part of the sky, stars had begun to rise. Visibility was so good that
Marquall could make out distant flashes against the undercast in the far north-west, hundreds of
kilometres away, a display like sheet lightning that he knew was pattern bombing.
They flew south for fifteen minutes, then tracked gently west. After another slow twenty
minutes, Marquall heard Blansher’s call.
“Contact. Strong, inbound, twenty kilometres.”
He sent the signal to the other Bolts, and their auspex systems tracked the lock.
“They’re under us, four thousand. Two groups,” Jagdea’s voice said. “Stay at this height, turn
onto them. Operations, are you seeing this?”
“Copy, Umbra Lead, but with no more detail than you’ve got.”
“Closing. Weapons live. Flight, stay tight.”
Another pause. Just the mighty throb of the engines and the hiss of the air-mix.
Marquall stared down into the darkness of the forest twilight. The contacts should have been
coming into visual, but it was all too black. Wisps of night cloud were forming at five thousand like
banners of smoke.
“I have transponder tracks,” Blansher called. “Clean signals. It’s Waldon, and at least one of the
Lightnings.”
“Umbra Nine, Umbra Nine, this is Umbra Leader high-side and inbound. Do you copy?”
A squeal of static disrupted the channel, then they heard Waldon’s voice. Even with the
distortion, there was a note of fear in it. Fear, or pain.
“Umbra Leader, Umbra Leader, this is Nine. Say again.”
“Coming in on you, Nine. What is your situation?”
“Assistance, assistance!” another voice cut in, blotting Waldon out.
“Identify, user,” Jagdea called.
“This is Spyglass Four, Umbra. Requesting immediate assistance.”
One of the Lightnings. The pilot sounded petrified.
“Situation please,” Jagdea called again.
Both the Lightning pilot and Waldon attempted to answer at the same time, and the result was a
mangle of signals.
Marquall was still peering down. He saw a glint, a faint trace of thruster flame. Then, against the
blackness, several tiny little streaks of light, there and gone.
“Lead, this is Eight. Their situation is they’re under attack. I see weapons fire, repeat, I see
weapons fire.”
“Stoop and sting!” Jagdea called.
The three Thunderbolts banked over and went into a power dive. As they closed, the jumbled,
merging auspex returns resolved. There were four machines below them. Waldon, flying close cover
behind a Lightning, and two unidentifieds running after them. Waldon was sweeping his machine
from side to side.
They came in. The sky lit up with gunfire traces. Marquall saw the Lightning. It had been shot
up, and was trailing long streamers of hot smoke that had blurred the auspex track. Waldon was at
its six.
About seven hundred and fifty metres behind them, two Locusts were closing in, weapons
pumping.
112
Waldon’s bird took several hits. Metal spalled off it in a spray that caught the last of the
daylight. Marquall couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Waldon was actually trying to use his
better-armoured machine to shield the struggling recon plane. He had never seen anything so
selfless and—
Espere. Espere had done the same for Marquall.
“Waldon?” Jagdea yelled.
“Ammo gone, Lead. Losing hydraulic pressure.”
Ammo gone. They must’ve been in a hell of a fight.
