out.
And, Throne, weren’t they busy? Kaminsky had counted at least three sortie launches since nightfall, and there’d also been a hell of a noise around midnight, which he was sure was a new wing arriving for deployment.
Things were hotting up. Kaminsky had heard rumours—a friend of a friend in the motor pool, who knew a guy, who’d got talking to a Navy fitter – rumours that there had already been a few air-brawls this side of the mountains. Some business had gone down over the Lida Valley the day before. Someone else said they’d seen bats over the Peninsula. That was probably crap. Kaminsky hoped so, because if it was true, that meant they really were near the end. But the Lida Valley, that was possible. And bad enough. The bats had got reach. Maybe even the vaunted Imperial Navy wings couldn’t stop them now.
They were trying, though. Kaminsky left his bunk in the Munitorum dorm and walked down the dimly-lit and blast-hardened hallway to section post. The five guys who were meant to be on standby were asleep in chairs. The jet roar hadn’t woken them. They were all Munitorum drivers, born and bred. They were oblivious to the subtle changes in the noise over the field.
Kaminsky helped himself to some caffeine from the pot on the stove, and went out into the motor pool yard. The air was cold and the night still very black. Several tech-priests were working on some cargo-8s, lighting the corner of the yard with the tremulous glow of their welding wands and incense burners.
Sipping his drink, Kaminsky strolled up the ramp until he was overlooking the main field. Guide path flares had just been lit, filling the night with a lambent green light. Thanks to this, he could see a row of Thunderbolts hunched under mesh-tents to the west. His guess had been right. They hadn’t been there the day before. A newly arrived wing. More reinforcements.
A shuddering rush swept over him out of the south, and he turned to watch another wing come in, returning from a sortie. Thunderbolts too. He liked the look of those big brutes and wondered how they felt to fly. The twelve machines came in low, following the guide path, and began to slow, turning their forward rate into a gentle hover as they adjusted their vector jets and settled down onto their designated pads. The monstrous, combined howl of their engines made his diaphragm shake.
“Good day, guys?” he called to them, out loud. “Many kills?” He toasted the distant planes with his cup. He could remember the buzz so clearly: riding home, guns empty, flying on fumes, the rush of a combat survived still twitching in his gut.
As the throb of the mighty turbofans began to fade, Kaminsky turned, hearing voices suddenly audible back in the yard. He wandered back that way, and saw Senior Pincheon standing in conversation with a Navy flier.
Pincheon looked flustered, which was never good for anyone else. The senior noticed Kaminsky approaching and called out to him.
“I need a driver!”
“Ready and willing, senior,” Kaminsky replied. Though he wasn’t due on yet, he knew he wouldn’t be doing any more sleeping now. He fancied a little distraction. Besides, he didn’t want Pincheon blithering into the section post and finding all the standbys asleep. The poor bastards would be on penalty shifts until doomsday. Which, of course, might be just a few days away…
“I’ll take it,” he said.
“Good. Transportation run. Conveyance needed to the Old Town and back. Fill this in.”
Kaminsky took the proffered data-slate and entered his work number and details. He wrote as quickly and neatly as his hand would allow.
“I need to go to a bar called the Hydra,” the Navy flier said. “Do you know it?”
Kaminsky looked up at the sound of the voice, and saw to his surprise that the tall flier was female. It was the woman whose mob he’d transported in two days earlier.
“Yes, mamzel… forgive me, commander. I know it.”
“Good,” she said. She nodded
And, Throne, weren’t they busy? Kaminsky had counted at least three sortie launches since nightfall, and there’d also been a hell of a noise around midnight, which he was sure was a new wing arriving for deployment.
Things were hotting up. Kaminsky had heard rumours—a friend of a friend in the motor pool, who knew a guy, who’d got talking to a Navy fitter – rumours that there had already been a few air-brawls this side of the mountains. Some business had gone down over the Lida Valley the day before. Someone else said they’d seen bats over the Peninsula. That was probably crap. Kaminsky hoped so, because if it was true, that meant they really were near the end. But the Lida Valley, that was possible. And bad enough. The bats had got reach. Maybe even the vaunted Imperial Navy wings couldn’t stop them now.
They were trying, though. Kaminsky left his bunk in the Munitorum dorm and walked down the dimly-lit and blast-hardened hallway to section post. The five guys who were meant to be on standby were asleep in chairs. The jet roar hadn’t woken them. They were all Munitorum drivers, born and bred. They were oblivious to the subtle changes in the noise over the field.
Kaminsky helped himself to some caffeine from the pot on the stove, and went out into the motor pool yard. The air was cold and the night still very black. Several tech-priests were working on some cargo-8s, lighting the corner of the yard with the tremulous glow of their welding wands and incense burners.
Sipping his drink, Kaminsky strolled up the ramp until he was overlooking the main field. Guide path flares had just been lit, filling the night with a lambent green light. Thanks to this, he could see a row of Thunderbolts hunched under mesh-tents to the west. His guess had been right. They hadn’t been there the day before. A newly arrived wing. More reinforcements.
A shuddering rush swept over him out of the south, and he turned to watch another wing come in, returning from a sortie. Thunderbolts too. He liked the look of those big brutes and wondered how they felt to fly. The twelve machines came in low, following the guide path, and began to slow, turning their forward rate into a gentle hover as they adjusted their vector jets and settled down onto their designated pads. The monstrous, combined howl of their engines made his diaphragm shake.
“Good day, guys?” he called to them, out loud. “Many kills?” He toasted the distant planes with his cup. He could remember the buzz so clearly: riding home, guns empty, flying on fumes, the rush of a combat survived still twitching in his gut.
As the throb of the mighty turbofans began to fade, Kaminsky turned, hearing voices suddenly audible back in the yard. He wandered back that way, and saw Senior Pincheon standing in conversation with a Navy flier.
Pincheon looked flustered, which was never good for anyone else. The senior noticed Kaminsky approaching and called out to him.
“I need a driver!”
“Ready and willing, senior,” Kaminsky replied. Though he wasn’t due on yet, he knew he wouldn’t be doing any more sleeping now. He fancied a little distraction. Besides, he didn’t want Pincheon blithering into the section post and finding all the standbys asleep. The poor bastards would be on penalty shifts until doomsday. Which, of course, might be just a few days away…
“I’ll take it,” he said.
“Good. Transportation run. Conveyance needed to the Old Town and back. Fill this in.”
Kaminsky took the proffered data-slate and entered his work number and details. He wrote as quickly and neatly as his hand would allow.
“I need to go to a bar called the Hydra,” the Navy flier said. “Do you know it?”
Kaminsky looked up at the sound of the voice, and saw to his surprise that the tall flier was female. It was the woman whose mob he’d transported in two days earlier.
“Yes, mamzel… forgive me, commander. I know it.”
“Good,” she said. She nodded
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