an iron-hinged door, set down from the street by three little steps. Kaminsky knocked, and the door opened.
The door-guard was a massive Ingeburgan with fat-hooded eyes. He looked them up and down, then waved them through.
The den was almost empty. Some chairs were already up on tables. Half a dozen Commonwealth fliers, all male, were playing cards around a corner table. A yawning waitress was serving them another bottle of joiliq. Two Navy fliers shared another booth, talking in low, fierce voices about something. A few other patrons sat alone, or played the chancer machines with their last pieces of change.
“Is he here?” whispered Kaminsky.
“That’s him. At the bar.”
There was a boy sitting at the bar side. A handsome sort, Kaminsky realised. He put the thought aside. Any one of the bastards in the room was handsome compared to him.
But still, this boy was especially handsome. Dark-haired, fair-skinned, tall… clearly from the same gene-pool that had produced the striking Commander Jagdea.
The boy was very drunk. A weary barman was cleaning a glass and watching in horrid fascination as the boy tried to find his mouth with a shot-cup. He missed, emptied the dregs of the liquor down his front, and then settled the glass on the marble bartop again.
He tapped it with an index finger.
“Whu’more.”
The barman shook his head.
“Oh fershizake. Whu’more, s’all I ask.”
“No,” said the barman.
“Time to go home, Vander,” Jagdea said.
The boy looked at her, blinked, and shook his head.
“Yes, Vander. Come home now, and we can forget this.”
“No. No. No-no. I’m woshup.”
“You’re in your cups, but you’re not washed up. Come on. I’ve got transport.”
The boy—Vander—fixed her with suddenly probing eyes. “Espere!” he spat.
“He’s in the infirmary. They’re patching him up.”
“Espere. He won” fly “gain.”
“No, he won’t. But that’s not down to you.”
“I got him hurt.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Y’esss! Yes, I got him hurt. I got him hurt. I got him. Hurt. I did. Me. I screwed up.”
“Maybe you did, Vander. Maybe you didn’t. No one’s blaming you for what happened to Pers.”
“Killacyclone too.”
“What?”
The boy made a shrugging movement with his hands. “Killacyclone. Killed. Killed a Cyclone. Shot the frigging thing to pieces, like—”
“No, Vander. We went over the gun-cam footage. The Cyclone was stung by a bat. Not you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Not you.”
“Hnh. Thassomething.”
“Yes, it is. Now come on, pilot. Get up. We’re going now.”
Vander shook his head. “Espere…” he muttered.
Jagdea took a step towards him and put her hand on his arm. “That’s it, Marquall. Enough with the self-pity. Get your arse upright and follow me.”
“G’way!”
“Marquall, I’ve stuck my neck out for you. My whole neck. I came looking for you rather than report you were overdue. So far, it’s off the record.” She looked round at Kaminsky. “It is off the record, isn’t it?”
Kaminsky shrugged. “Sure.”
She shook Marquall. “See what I do for you? It’s off the record. I didn’t report you to the Commissariat. I could lose command for letting you run off like this. FTR. Failed To Return. You’re four hours late back at billet. The commissars would shoot you for this. Shoot me, too. Don’t mess me up, Marquall. Don’t you dare earn the Phantine a rep for screw-ups and disobedience. We’re running with the frigging Navy now! Get up, Marquall! Don’t you disgrace me! I need you!”
He looked at her, blinking to focus. “Y’don’ need me…”
“I lost a pilot yesterday. I’ll be damned if I lose two!”
She pulled his arm, and he struggled back. Kaminsky winced as the boy fell off his seat. He spilled Commander Jagdea over with him as he went, and a glass broke.
“That’s enough!” the barman cried. The Ingeburgan thug was closing in.
“It’s okay,” Kaminsky said, holding up his
The door-guard was a massive Ingeburgan with fat-hooded eyes. He looked them up and down, then waved them through.
The den was almost empty. Some chairs were already up on tables. Half a dozen Commonwealth fliers, all male, were playing cards around a corner table. A yawning waitress was serving them another bottle of joiliq. Two Navy fliers shared another booth, talking in low, fierce voices about something. A few other patrons sat alone, or played the chancer machines with their last pieces of change.
“Is he here?” whispered Kaminsky.
“That’s him. At the bar.”
There was a boy sitting at the bar side. A handsome sort, Kaminsky realised. He put the thought aside. Any one of the bastards in the room was handsome compared to him.
But still, this boy was especially handsome. Dark-haired, fair-skinned, tall… clearly from the same gene-pool that had produced the striking Commander Jagdea.
The boy was very drunk. A weary barman was cleaning a glass and watching in horrid fascination as the boy tried to find his mouth with a shot-cup. He missed, emptied the dregs of the liquor down his front, and then settled the glass on the marble bartop again.
He tapped it with an index finger.
“Whu’more.”
The barman shook his head.
“Oh fershizake. Whu’more, s’all I ask.”
“No,” said the barman.
“Time to go home, Vander,” Jagdea said.
The boy looked at her, blinked, and shook his head.
“Yes, Vander. Come home now, and we can forget this.”
“No. No. No-no. I’m woshup.”
“You’re in your cups, but you’re not washed up. Come on. I’ve got transport.”
The boy—Vander—fixed her with suddenly probing eyes. “Espere!” he spat.
“He’s in the infirmary. They’re patching him up.”
“Espere. He won” fly “gain.”
“No, he won’t. But that’s not down to you.”
“I got him hurt.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Y’esss! Yes, I got him hurt. I got him hurt. I got him. Hurt. I did. Me. I screwed up.”
“Maybe you did, Vander. Maybe you didn’t. No one’s blaming you for what happened to Pers.”
“Killacyclone too.”
“What?”
The boy made a shrugging movement with his hands. “Killacyclone. Killed. Killed a Cyclone. Shot the frigging thing to pieces, like—”
“No, Vander. We went over the gun-cam footage. The Cyclone was stung by a bat. Not you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Not you.”
“Hnh. Thassomething.”
“Yes, it is. Now come on, pilot. Get up. We’re going now.”
Vander shook his head. “Espere…” he muttered.
Jagdea took a step towards him and put her hand on his arm. “That’s it, Marquall. Enough with the self-pity. Get your arse upright and follow me.”
“G’way!”
“Marquall, I’ve stuck my neck out for you. My whole neck. I came looking for you rather than report you were overdue. So far, it’s off the record.” She looked round at Kaminsky. “It is off the record, isn’t it?”
Kaminsky shrugged. “Sure.”
She shook Marquall. “See what I do for you? It’s off the record. I didn’t report you to the Commissariat. I could lose command for letting you run off like this. FTR. Failed To Return. You’re four hours late back at billet. The commissars would shoot you for this. Shoot me, too. Don’t mess me up, Marquall. Don’t you dare earn the Phantine a rep for screw-ups and disobedience. We’re running with the frigging Navy now! Get up, Marquall! Don’t you disgrace me! I need you!”
He looked at her, blinking to focus. “Y’don’ need me…”
“I lost a pilot yesterday. I’ll be damned if I lose two!”
She pulled his arm, and he struggled back. Kaminsky winced as the boy fell off his seat. He spilled Commander Jagdea over with him as he went, and a glass broke.
“That’s enough!” the barman cried. The Ingeburgan thug was closing in.
“It’s okay,” Kaminsky said, holding up his
Similar Books
