thanks to Pincheon and fell into step beside Kaminsky as they headed for his transport. “You’ll ride in the cab?” he asked.
“Thanks. Yes.”
He opened the cab door for her and she climbed up. Then he went round to the driver’s side, boarded, and turned the engine over.
Lamps blazing, they rumbled out of the compound and left the airfield, joining the empty highway strip into the city. She said nothing, just gazed out at the hooded lights of the field as they went by and receded.
It felt funny having company in the cab. He usually shipped teams of personnel around, loaded in the back. The cab was his private space. He felt embarrassed suddenly by the litter of disposable cups in the footwell, the fact that someone could see the way he had to lock his prosthetic hand around the wheel spoke.
But it would have been rude to expect her to ride in the rear.
At length, uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and said, “The Hydra, you said?”
“Yes. On Voldney.”
“Yeah.”
Did she recognise him? Half of him presumed not. Just another Munitorum drone. The other half was outraged. With a face like his?
The thought made him smile. Suddenly, August, vain about your looks!
“Something the matter, driver?” she asked.
“No, commander,” he said. “I’m to wait for you at the Hydra, is that right?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”
“Not going out for a celebratory drink, then?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, you know. A flier, back from a mission, wanting to wind down. The Hydra is popular with pilots.”
“So I’ve heard.”
So what’s this about, then, he wanted to ask? But he stopped himself. It wasn’t his place. He wasn’t one of them any more, and he couldn’t get away with insolence. He was a Munitorum drone.
As if she sensed his curiosity, she suddenly said, “I’m looking for an FTR.”
“Ah,” he said. Understanding, he smiled again. He was flattered that she should bother to make even that much conversation. She said nothing else until they were pulling up outside the Hydra.
“Wait here,” she instructed, and jumped down out of the cab.
Five minutes passed. Ten. A trio of drunken Commonwealth troopers staggered out of the bar like a six-legged beast and blundered off down the pavement, singing. It was dark. Just the lights of his truck, the neon bar sign, a few still-lit windows overlooking the narrow street.
He saw her re-emerge, alone. She looked up and down the street, annoyed. She crossed back to the driver’s side and he wound down his window.
“Not there?”
“No. Is there anywhere else you know?”
“A few places. Get in.”
He drove down through the Gillehal Plaza, and, as there was no one around, took a shortcut up a one-way ramp onto the shelving streets of the Zagerhanz. The truck’s gears wallowed as he downshifted on the steep slope.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“There are a couple of places up here. The Lullabye and the Midwinter. They’re often open after hours.”
She nodded.
“How long’s he been gone?”
“Since 22.00 yesterday.”
“And you don’t want to make this official?”
“No, I—No.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jagdea,” she said, reluctantly.
He waited for her at the Lullabye and the Midwinter, but she came back from both on her own.
“One last idea. There’s a place on the Grand Canal.”
He drove the truck expertly along the narrow Old Town streets. There was just the tiniest hint of dawn in the air now. When they got to the place, he turned off the engine and climbed down with her.
“You can stay with the transport, driver.”
Kaminsky shook his head. “Actually no, Commander Jagdea. You’ll need me to get in.”
“Why?”
“Zara’s is an old drinking den. Not a bar. Women are only allowed in if they are the companions of male clientele.”
She stared at him.
“It’s true,” he said. “Maybe… maybe that’s why your FTR came here.”
Together, they walked to
“Thanks. Yes.”
He opened the cab door for her and she climbed up. Then he went round to the driver’s side, boarded, and turned the engine over.
Lamps blazing, they rumbled out of the compound and left the airfield, joining the empty highway strip into the city. She said nothing, just gazed out at the hooded lights of the field as they went by and receded.
It felt funny having company in the cab. He usually shipped teams of personnel around, loaded in the back. The cab was his private space. He felt embarrassed suddenly by the litter of disposable cups in the footwell, the fact that someone could see the way he had to lock his prosthetic hand around the wheel spoke.
But it would have been rude to expect her to ride in the rear.
At length, uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and said, “The Hydra, you said?”
“Yes. On Voldney.”
“Yeah.”
Did she recognise him? Half of him presumed not. Just another Munitorum drone. The other half was outraged. With a face like his?
The thought made him smile. Suddenly, August, vain about your looks!
“Something the matter, driver?” she asked.
“No, commander,” he said. “I’m to wait for you at the Hydra, is that right?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”
“Not going out for a celebratory drink, then?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, you know. A flier, back from a mission, wanting to wind down. The Hydra is popular with pilots.”
“So I’ve heard.”
So what’s this about, then, he wanted to ask? But he stopped himself. It wasn’t his place. He wasn’t one of them any more, and he couldn’t get away with insolence. He was a Munitorum drone.
As if she sensed his curiosity, she suddenly said, “I’m looking for an FTR.”
“Ah,” he said. Understanding, he smiled again. He was flattered that she should bother to make even that much conversation. She said nothing else until they were pulling up outside the Hydra.
“Wait here,” she instructed, and jumped down out of the cab.
Five minutes passed. Ten. A trio of drunken Commonwealth troopers staggered out of the bar like a six-legged beast and blundered off down the pavement, singing. It was dark. Just the lights of his truck, the neon bar sign, a few still-lit windows overlooking the narrow street.
He saw her re-emerge, alone. She looked up and down the street, annoyed. She crossed back to the driver’s side and he wound down his window.
“Not there?”
“No. Is there anywhere else you know?”
“A few places. Get in.”
He drove down through the Gillehal Plaza, and, as there was no one around, took a shortcut up a one-way ramp onto the shelving streets of the Zagerhanz. The truck’s gears wallowed as he downshifted on the steep slope.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“There are a couple of places up here. The Lullabye and the Midwinter. They’re often open after hours.”
She nodded.
“How long’s he been gone?”
“Since 22.00 yesterday.”
“And you don’t want to make this official?”
“No, I—No.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jagdea,” she said, reluctantly.
He waited for her at the Lullabye and the Midwinter, but she came back from both on her own.
“One last idea. There’s a place on the Grand Canal.”
He drove the truck expertly along the narrow Old Town streets. There was just the tiniest hint of dawn in the air now. When they got to the place, he turned off the engine and climbed down with her.
“You can stay with the transport, driver.”
Kaminsky shook his head. “Actually no, Commander Jagdea. You’ll need me to get in.”
“Why?”
“Zara’s is an old drinking den. Not a bar. Women are only allowed in if they are the companions of male clientele.”
She stared at him.
“It’s true,” he said. “Maybe… maybe that’s why your FTR came here.”
Together, they walked to
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