then Hello Hellfire. It whipped up into a firestorm. The others, in swift succession, followed.
By then, G for Greta was banking up out of the pass, the crystal mountainscape under her. Sucked back into their harness rigs by the extreme G, her crew was still cheering.
Levelling out at five kilometres over the peaks, Viltry sagged over the controls for a moment, breathing hard.
“We cooked them! We cooked the bastards and—”
The voice was shrilling from Gaize, the turret gunner.
“Shut up. Shut up!” Viltry yelled. “Shut up for Throne’s sake! Pick up your visual scanning right now or we won’t get home! Do you hear me? We won’t frigging well get home!”
Theda MAB South, 12.12
The sky was empty, but Pilot Officer Vander Marquall wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at his bird.
The I-XXI Thunderbolt sat on its skids in an anti-blast revetment on the east side of the Theda South field. It was a hefty beast, fourteen tonnes dead weight without fuel, with a blunt group of cannons for a nose and a body that swelled out into forward swept wings around the thrust tunnels of the double turbofan engines. The canopy was set amidships, giving the Bolt a reclined, louche look.
It was painted matt grey, with the marks of the Phantine XX on its tail and nose. Its exposed engine ducts glinted copper.
Racklae, Marquall’s chief fitter, looked up from under one of the gun housings. “Be good as new, I promise,” he said.
Marquall grinned. Racklae’s subs were just finishing up the nose art paint job on the bird. The Phantine stylised eagle, clasping the jagged lightning bolt, with the name “Double Eagle” beneath it in inverted commas.
Marquall became aware of someone coming up behind him. He turned, and stiffened in surprise.
It was Captain Guis Gettering of the Apostles, his white suede flight coat almost glowing in the midday sunlight.
“Sir, I—” Marquall began.
Gettering calmly removed one of his chainmail gauntlets and slapped Marquall across the face with it so hard that the young man was knocked down onto one knee.
Dazed, stunned, his face grazed by the chain, Marquall looked up.
Guis Gettering was striding back to his hardstand.
“What…” gasped Marquall, rising with the assistance of his fitters. “What the bloody hell was that about?”
Theda MAB North, 12.26
When Darrow finally got back to his station, it seemed like the place had been abandoned. He stood for a few minutes on the sunlit assembly yard and looked out across the main field. A kilometre away, along the western side of the area, he could see rows of big machines under nets. Imperial birds, Marauders. Darrow could just make out fitter crews at work on the heavy fighter-bombers. To his north, Munitorum crews were dismantling six of the twelve launching ramps used by the Wolfcubs. Activity, but all of it remote.
The complex of operations and barrack buildings behind him felt deserted and empty. He wandered up the main steps and into the cool gloom of the main hall. Darrow was wearing a borrowed pair of old overalls. His clothing had been ruined in the crash. He’d managed to keep hold of his aviator boots, and his heavy leather flying coat, though one sleeve of it had been badly torn. He’d refused to let the medics toss it away.
They’d insisted on keeping him in Theda South’s infirmary overnight for observation, even though it was clear to anybody that he was fine apart from a few scratches and bruises. In the morning, he’d been forced to wait, twitchy with impatience, to fill out forms and incident statements. Only then had he been written up cleared and allowed to snag the first available transport back to North.
He just wanted to get back, get into the routine again and put the previous day, that terrible day, behind him.
No one seemed to want to let him do that. The forms, the medical checks, the incident statements. Even the transport driver who’d brought him back from Theda South seemed like a
By then, G for Greta was banking up out of the pass, the crystal mountainscape under her. Sucked back into their harness rigs by the extreme G, her crew was still cheering.
Levelling out at five kilometres over the peaks, Viltry sagged over the controls for a moment, breathing hard.
“We cooked them! We cooked the bastards and—”
The voice was shrilling from Gaize, the turret gunner.
“Shut up. Shut up!” Viltry yelled. “Shut up for Throne’s sake! Pick up your visual scanning right now or we won’t get home! Do you hear me? We won’t frigging well get home!”
Theda MAB South, 12.12
The sky was empty, but Pilot Officer Vander Marquall wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at his bird.
The I-XXI Thunderbolt sat on its skids in an anti-blast revetment on the east side of the Theda South field. It was a hefty beast, fourteen tonnes dead weight without fuel, with a blunt group of cannons for a nose and a body that swelled out into forward swept wings around the thrust tunnels of the double turbofan engines. The canopy was set amidships, giving the Bolt a reclined, louche look.
It was painted matt grey, with the marks of the Phantine XX on its tail and nose. Its exposed engine ducts glinted copper.
Racklae, Marquall’s chief fitter, looked up from under one of the gun housings. “Be good as new, I promise,” he said.
Marquall grinned. Racklae’s subs were just finishing up the nose art paint job on the bird. The Phantine stylised eagle, clasping the jagged lightning bolt, with the name “Double Eagle” beneath it in inverted commas.
Marquall became aware of someone coming up behind him. He turned, and stiffened in surprise.
It was Captain Guis Gettering of the Apostles, his white suede flight coat almost glowing in the midday sunlight.
“Sir, I—” Marquall began.
Gettering calmly removed one of his chainmail gauntlets and slapped Marquall across the face with it so hard that the young man was knocked down onto one knee.
Dazed, stunned, his face grazed by the chain, Marquall looked up.
Guis Gettering was striding back to his hardstand.
“What…” gasped Marquall, rising with the assistance of his fitters. “What the bloody hell was that about?”
Theda MAB North, 12.26
When Darrow finally got back to his station, it seemed like the place had been abandoned. He stood for a few minutes on the sunlit assembly yard and looked out across the main field. A kilometre away, along the western side of the area, he could see rows of big machines under nets. Imperial birds, Marauders. Darrow could just make out fitter crews at work on the heavy fighter-bombers. To his north, Munitorum crews were dismantling six of the twelve launching ramps used by the Wolfcubs. Activity, but all of it remote.
The complex of operations and barrack buildings behind him felt deserted and empty. He wandered up the main steps and into the cool gloom of the main hall. Darrow was wearing a borrowed pair of old overalls. His clothing had been ruined in the crash. He’d managed to keep hold of his aviator boots, and his heavy leather flying coat, though one sleeve of it had been badly torn. He’d refused to let the medics toss it away.
They’d insisted on keeping him in Theda South’s infirmary overnight for observation, even though it was clear to anybody that he was fine apart from a few scratches and bruises. In the morning, he’d been forced to wait, twitchy with impatience, to fill out forms and incident statements. Only then had he been written up cleared and allowed to snag the first available transport back to North.
He just wanted to get back, get into the routine again and put the previous day, that terrible day, behind him.
No one seemed to want to let him do that. The forms, the medical checks, the incident statements. Even the transport driver who’d brought him back from Theda South seemed like a
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