Double Eagle (20 page)

The yellow bat had decided not to run after all, and had executed a vector turn high above, dropping in like an arrow to find a target. It had missed its chance with Jagdea, so it went for Cordiale, who was still locked in the chase at the leaf-line with the crimson Locust.

It hadn’t even seen Blansher.

Umbra Two fell on it from above and behind, quad cannons alight. The Locust shuddered painfully, its hull deformed by the stresses of the multiple impacts, and then blossomed like a flower into bright, radial petals of burning, expanding gas.

At about the same moment, a thousand metres higher up, Jagdea managed to pull off the most perfect Ziegner turn, witnessed by no one, and came in true on the blue bat as it attempted one final slice-roll to port.

Her grouped shots ripped out its nose, then wrenched off a wing-section. As it began to wobble, she fired a third burst that hit the Locust directly under the cockpit mount on the port side. The entire cockpit assembly exploded. An ejector system must have fired, because she clearly saw a burning object fly straight up out of the stricken bat and then fall away like a meteor. Empty, ruined, its pilot already incinerated, the Locust folded up and rained down onto the forest as a hundred thousand burning scraps.

Two of the remaining bats had now fled south on full burn. The last live target was the crimson one that Cordiale was pursuing over the trees.

“Need assist?” Blansher voxed, rolling down.

“Negative, Two. Negative. I’ve got him. Tricksy little bastard.”

Flying at zero over the canopy at close on four hundred kph, Cordiale whooped as he finally got a fleeting lock tone. He opened up.

At precisely the same moment, his target’s shock-wash scared a flock of pink birds out of the trees. Cordiale flew smack into them. They hit his plane like cannon shells. Plating fractured. The canopy smashed. One engine shrieked as feathered missiles clogged the intakes and buckled the whirring fans. There was a mist of blood.

“Shit!” they heard Cordiale yell.

Jagdea and Blansher were already sweeping down after him. They both witnessed the odd, pink flare of organic debris as his machine mowed into the flock. Cordiale had hit the crimson Locust, and it had promptly crashed at high speed into the trees.

But none of them cared about that now.

“Cordiale!” Jagdea screamed.

Umbra Eleven, hammered, one engine totalled, tried to correct, faltered and hit the trees.

“Cordiale! Cordiale!” Blansher could hear Jagdea yelling over the vox.

Suddenly, almost impossibly, Umbra Eleven reappeared, splashing out of the torn and thrashing greenery like a flying fish out of an ocean swell. Cordiale had managed, against the odds, to keep the nose up, and had ripped through the upper foliage of the canopy mass without striking a primary trunk.

He began to climb, pouring a nail of brown smoke out of his port engine that soon turned white. “Umbra Eleven?”

“Still here, Lead. Bastard bloody birds.”

Nineteen minutes later, they settled back at the FSB. Blansher and Jagdea had nurse-maided Cordiale’s buckled, limping Bolt all the way home.

The camo-shrouds drew back, exposing the matt-deck hardstands like sockets in the green wilderness.

The three Thunderbolts switched to vertical vector and sank gently onto their stands. As their fans powered down, the shimmer netting folded back over them.

As soon as her stand controller gave her the hand signal for okay, Jagdea yanked out her vox and air plugs, climbed out of her cockpit and jumped down onto the vulcanised mat. She tossed her helmet to the nearest fitter and ran out of the launch area along the decking under the trees.

She reached Cordiale’s pad around the same time as Blansher. Umbra Eleven, venting steam and coiling plumes of vapour, was a mess. The canopy was wrecked and the nose armour pummelled. A team of fitters was spraying retardant foam into the clogged, burning engine. The fore-part of the Thunderbolt was a mass of sticky black blood and tattered feathers.

Cordiale was climbing down. He was shaking. One bird carcass had punched through his canopy so hard it had smashed his visor and given him a black eye.

He took off his helmet, dropped it, and wiped the treacly blood from his face. Then he squinted round at Jagdea and Blansher as they came up to him.

“Mental note,” he said, wagging a finger at Jagdea. “Avoid birds wherever possible.”

“Will do,” she smiled.

Cordiale reached around to the nose of his aircraft and peeled a pink feather out of the sticky mass plastered across it.

He held it up.

“Lucky feather, anyone?”

Lake Gocel FSB, 16.42

The scops were killing him. He’d signed up to fight the Archenemy of mankind, not microscopic flies. Everywhere he went, they surrounded him, unseen, filling his ears with a hiss like a tuned-out vox.

His back was sore. He’d tried not to scratch, but…

Marquall wandered down to the lake shore, wondering if the filthy things would leave him alone out in the open. It didn’t seem to help.

The lake’s beach was muddy and dimpled. Behind him, the dense rainforest rose like a rotting curtain. The sun was beginning to sink, turning the sky as rose-pink as Cordiale’s lucky bloody feathers.

The lake was immense. It occurred to Marquall that he’d never seen a lake before. Standing water, that was a novelty. It was kind of like looking out across the Scald from the ports of a Phantine hive, except that it was so flat. So sheer. The vast green mirror had not changed colour as the sun set, but it had altered tonally. It was murky now, heavy, still.

Slip-snakes danced across its surface tension.

Marquall wondered if he should go check on his bird, but the last time he’d seen Nine-Nine, two Navy Sentinels, fitted out with paint tanks and wash guns in place of the regular lifting claws, had been half-way through spraying it green.

Marquall knelt at the shore line, and dipped his arms into the water. It was warm. He cupped his hands to wash his face.

“Don’t do that, you cretin.”

Marquall looked over his shoulder. The ayatani was sitting on a promontory of rock behind him, his blue robes gathered about him.

What was his name again? Kautas, was it?

“Why shouldn’t I?” Marquall asked.

“No reason. Go right ahead.”

Marquall let the water fall out of his fingers and rose, wiping his hands dry on the legs of his trousers. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Baroxyin Biroxas,” said the priest.

“Which is?”

“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.

“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…”

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.”

“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.”