The war with theFree-born had been going on for more than ten years. It wasn’t his war to begin with, and it wasn’t a war that made much sense to him. Money could carry you only so far when your heart lay somewhere else.
Besides, no matter who you were, sooner or later your luck ran out. It was best to be somewhere else when it did.
He passed out of the sprawling clutter of tents and cooking fires onto the airfield. The warships were tethered in place by their stays, floating just off the ground, ambient-light sails tilted toward the sun off twin masts. Most were Federation built and showed it. Big, ugly, cumbersome brutes, sheathed in metal armor and painted with the insignia and colors of their regiments, in flight they lumbered about the skies like errant sloths. As troop transports and battering rams, they were a howling success. As fighting vessels that could tack smoothly and quickly, they left something to be desired. If they were ably commanded, which most weren’t, their life expectancy on the front was about the same as that of their Captains and crews.
He walked on, barely giving them a glance. The banter that had passed between himself and the foot soldiers was absent here. The officers and crews of the Federation airships despised him. Rovers were mercenaries, not career soldiers. Rovers fought only for money and left when they chose. Rovers cared nothing for the Federation cause or the lives of the men that had been expended on its behalf. But the worst of it was the knowledge that the Rover officers and crews were so much better than the Federation crews were. In the air, faith in a cause did little to keep you alive.
A few taunting remarks were tossed at him from behind the anonymity of metal-clad hulls, but he ignored them. No one would make those same remarks to his face. Not these days. Not since he had killed the last man who’d dared to do so.
The sleeker, trimmer Rover airships came into view as he neared the far end of the field.
Black Moclips
sat foremost,polished wood-and-metal hull gleaming in the sunlight. She was the best ship he had ever flown, a cruiser built for battle, quick and responsive to the tack of her ambient-light sails and the tightening and loosening of her radian draws. Just a shade under 110 feet long and 35 feet wide, she resembled a big black ray. Her low, flat fighting cabin sat amidships on a decking braced by cross beams and warded by twin pontoons curved into battering rams fore and aft. Twin sets of diapson crystals converted to raw energy the light funneled from the collector sails through the radian draws. Parse tubes expelled the converted energy to propel the ship. The bridge sat aft with the pilot box front and center on the decking, its controls carefully shielded from harm. Three masts flew the ambient-light sails, one each fore, aft, and center. The sails themselves were strangely shaped, broad and straight at the lower end, where they were fastened to the booms, but curved where spars drew them high above to a triangle’s point. The design allowed for minimal slack in a retack and minimal drag from the wind. Speed and power kept you alive in the air, and both were measured in seconds.
Furl Hawken came racing down the field from the ship, long blond beard whipping from side to side. “We’re ready to lift off, Captain,” he shouted, slowing as he reached Alt Mer and swung into step beside him. “Got a good day for it, don’t we?”
“Smooth sailing ahead.” Redden Alt Mer put his hand on his Second Officer’s broad shoulder. “Any sign of Little Red?”
Furl Hawken’s mouth worked on whatever it was he was chewing, his eyes cast down. “Sick in bed, Captain. Flu, maybe. You know her. She’d come if she was able.”
“I know you’re the worst liar for a hundred miles in any direction. She’s in a tavern somewhere, or worse.”
The big man looked hurt. “Well, maybe that’s so, but you’d better let it pass for now, ’cause we got a
Besides, no matter who you were, sooner or later your luck ran out. It was best to be somewhere else when it did.
He passed out of the sprawling clutter of tents and cooking fires onto the airfield. The warships were tethered in place by their stays, floating just off the ground, ambient-light sails tilted toward the sun off twin masts. Most were Federation built and showed it. Big, ugly, cumbersome brutes, sheathed in metal armor and painted with the insignia and colors of their regiments, in flight they lumbered about the skies like errant sloths. As troop transports and battering rams, they were a howling success. As fighting vessels that could tack smoothly and quickly, they left something to be desired. If they were ably commanded, which most weren’t, their life expectancy on the front was about the same as that of their Captains and crews.
He walked on, barely giving them a glance. The banter that had passed between himself and the foot soldiers was absent here. The officers and crews of the Federation airships despised him. Rovers were mercenaries, not career soldiers. Rovers fought only for money and left when they chose. Rovers cared nothing for the Federation cause or the lives of the men that had been expended on its behalf. But the worst of it was the knowledge that the Rover officers and crews were so much better than the Federation crews were. In the air, faith in a cause did little to keep you alive.
A few taunting remarks were tossed at him from behind the anonymity of metal-clad hulls, but he ignored them. No one would make those same remarks to his face. Not these days. Not since he had killed the last man who’d dared to do so.
The sleeker, trimmer Rover airships came into view as he neared the far end of the field.
Black Moclips
sat foremost,polished wood-and-metal hull gleaming in the sunlight. She was the best ship he had ever flown, a cruiser built for battle, quick and responsive to the tack of her ambient-light sails and the tightening and loosening of her radian draws. Just a shade under 110 feet long and 35 feet wide, she resembled a big black ray. Her low, flat fighting cabin sat amidships on a decking braced by cross beams and warded by twin pontoons curved into battering rams fore and aft. Twin sets of diapson crystals converted to raw energy the light funneled from the collector sails through the radian draws. Parse tubes expelled the converted energy to propel the ship. The bridge sat aft with the pilot box front and center on the decking, its controls carefully shielded from harm. Three masts flew the ambient-light sails, one each fore, aft, and center. The sails themselves were strangely shaped, broad and straight at the lower end, where they were fastened to the booms, but curved where spars drew them high above to a triangle’s point. The design allowed for minimal slack in a retack and minimal drag from the wind. Speed and power kept you alive in the air, and both were measured in seconds.
Furl Hawken came racing down the field from the ship, long blond beard whipping from side to side. “We’re ready to lift off, Captain,” he shouted, slowing as he reached Alt Mer and swung into step beside him. “Got a good day for it, don’t we?”
“Smooth sailing ahead.” Redden Alt Mer put his hand on his Second Officer’s broad shoulder. “Any sign of Little Red?”
Furl Hawken’s mouth worked on whatever it was he was chewing, his eyes cast down. “Sick in bed, Captain. Flu, maybe. You know her. She’d come if she was able.”
“I know you’re the worst liar for a hundred miles in any direction. She’s in a tavern somewhere, or worse.”
The big man looked hurt. “Well, maybe that’s so, but you’d better let it pass for now, ’cause we got a
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