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“Stoop and sting；” Marquall instructed。 God…Emperor； but he’d waited his whole life to say that
for real。
“On your lead； Eight；” Van Tull responded calmly。
“Just say when；” added Espere。
“My mark… three； two… mark！”
The three Bolts curved away； speed climbing as they dropped。 Intercept dive。 Marquall could
see Jagdea； and two of the bats。 The other machines were local prop…drives。 He was coming down
on them so very fast…
Guns！ Throne of Earth； he’d almost forgotten to switch live in his excitement。 He wrenched
back the switch cover。 There was a bat； snaking left under his wing。 Surely； they’d seen the three
Bolts coming down on them？ Who cared？
He had a lock； and he squeezed。 His machine rocked as it unloaded。 Marquall swore aloud。 He’d
meant to select autocannon； but the toggle was across on las。 He’d sprayed off almost half his
battery load in one go and not even hit anything。
Except… Over there； a Cyclone。 Falling； coming apart； weeping flame。 Marquall blinked hard；
sweat drooling inside his mask。 Shit； no！ Please say he hadn’t done that！ Please！
“Eight！ Have you got a malfunction？ Marquall？” Van Tull’s voice exploded out of the speakers。
Marquall snapped awake。 He’d only been staring at the Cyclone for a second or two； but that
was more than enough。 His dive had punched him down through the fight layer。 A miserable
overshoot。
“I’m okay； I’m okay！” he yelled； and instinctively pulled on the stick。 It was a rookie mistake。
He was coming up far too hard； bleeding off all the power he’d gained from the dive as his machine
struggled to climb again。 His airspeed dropped to a crawl。
“You stupid fool！” he cried aloud。
“Eight？ Say again？”
“I’m all right！” he snapped； swinging into a wide； curving turn to nurse some speed back into his
wings。 Almost at once； a Locust went past in front of him。 With a jolt； he fired wildly； missed。
Pearly las…shot dwindled away in front of him。 A tone sounded。 Weapons batteries out。 He’d just
done it again。 He hadn’t deselected； and now his primary weapons were spent and dry。 All thirty
shots wasted in two futile bursts。
Jagdea had looked up as her three wingmen came stooping into the fight。 Van Tull’s machine
went over across her two； and expertly splashed a banking Locust。 The bat fire…balled； and Van
Tull’s Thunderbolt rolled as it swept through the flame wash； its slipstream sucking fire and debris
out behind it in a curious string。 Espere made a fine pass； but his chosen target viffed at the last
moment and went wide。 Espere flattened neatly； dummied； and then rolled out left chasing another
bat。
Jagdea wasn’t quite sure what e in like his arse
was on fire； and unloaded a ridiculous quantity of las…power。 Virgin nerves？ Maybe。 Maybe that
explained why he’d also dropped long and then mushed off all his power in the worst dive recovery
she’d seen outside of flight school。
She wanted to break off and go to cover him； but the Locust was back on her； getting
intermittent locks as she jinked and twisted。
“Four…One Leader to Umbra Five。”
“Go； Lead！”
“Espere。 Cover the boy； for Throne’s sake！”
“On it！”
Espere turned his Bolt over and burned towards Umbra Eight。 It was wallowing now； making
tentative jinks。
“Eight； this is Five。 You okay？”
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“Yeah； I’m… yeah。”
“Eight； do you have a weapons malfunction？”
“Negative； Eight。”
“You just nailed the sky with what looked like full batteries。”
“Negative； negative。 I’m fine。”
Espere shook his head。 He was tense himself。 Very tense； and it wasn’t just the fly…fight。 Alone
amongst the pilots of Umbra Flight； Pers Espere had not settled well with the Thunderbolts。 He
missed his old Lightning more than he could explain。 In dispersal； the others would sit around；
lauding their Bolts； and talking about them like they were lovers； wives； husbands。 Espere just
didn’t feel that way。 His machine； serial Nine…Nine； did not suit him。 It was an old machine； a
veteran bird； lovingly maintained by the fitter teams。 Espere didn’t know if it was Thunderbolts in
general that disagreed with him； or Nine…Nine in particular。 He was fighting with it all the time；
wrestling to get it to do what he wanted。 He had come to loathe the prospect of each sortie。
In an Imperium where diligently…maintained war machines were often ten； twelve； fifteen times
older than their pilots or drivers； there were plenty of tales of particular planes or tanks carrying a
jinx。 Cursed machines； plaguing the lives of their users until they were themselves destroyed。 Serial
Nine…Nine had a long and patchy record。 Six pilots dead or maimed at the controls； two bad
landings； three major refits。 Espere had once asked Hemmen； his chief fitter； if Nine…Nine was
jinxed。 Hemmen had laughed； not altogether reassuringly； and said not。 The following morning；
there’d been a refuelling mishap。 A junior fitter had been torched so badly he’d left the skin of his
hands fused to Nine…Nine’s fuselage。
He tried not to think about it； even though he’d made four kills in his old Lightning； and none in
this machine。 It was constantly coming home with shot…holes to patch。
Espere settled in beside Marquall’s machine。 Espere was an expert wingman。 He knew how to
fly cover and watch a fellow pilot’s back。 That’s why Jagdea had called him to do this； and that’s
what he’d do。 But he with his antics。 There was a gauge light
on for a drop in lube…pressure。 What was that about？ Had he taken a hit he didn’t know about？
Mind on the game； Pers。 Mind on the game。 The boy needed all his help。
“Come about； Eight。 Let’s see if we can’t do some good here。”
He looked over at the machine alongside him； and saeted head nod
eagerly； his thumb coming up。 Sunlight glinted off the canopy。
Sunlight glinted off something else。
“Break！ Break！ Break！” Espere yelled。 The two Bolts scissored up and away violently as the
mauve shape snapped by。 Espere’s damage recorder started beeping。
“Eight？ Where are you？” Espere rasped； struggling with the stick as he tried to right the plane。
“I can’t see it！ I can’t see it！”
Espere could see him well enough。 Marquall was above and to his right； turning really badly into
a terrible climb。 Espere hit the juice and started to rise。
“Pull in； Eight！ You’re going to stall if you turn that tight！”
Silence。 The horrendous weight of high G was preventing the kid from answering。
Don’t black out… don’t black out… Espere willed。 Shit！ There was the bat again； stooping in
from the east； cannons blazing。 Marquall’s Bolt shuddered as it was hit； but the impact seemed to
settle him out。 Or snap him awake。
Espere hit reheat and came around hard in a port turn…and…roll； viffing gently to set himself up
on the Locust as it crossed。 He’d be damned if he’d let the kid get killed on his virgin run。
Espere opened up。 Autocannons。 A neat burst with good deflection。 The Locust trembled； side
hit； and then broke left。
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Then； out of nowhere； there was another bat； coming in straight。 Espere kicked the rudder and
came in tight； shielding Marquall’s bird with his own machine as he tipped his nose towards the
attacker。
Marquall saw what was happening about a second too late。 Espere’s plane rocked wildly。 Pieces
of plating sheared off； part of the rudder； part of an engine duct。 The canopy shattered but stayed on。
The Locust went by under them both like a comet； doing well over 500 kph。
“Umbra Five！ Umbra Five！ Are you all right？”
Umbra Five wobbled and began exuding a trickle of grey smoke。
“Umbra Five？”
“I’m okay；” Espere’s voice answered。 “I’m okay。”
Espere had been hit； Jagdea was pretty certain of that。 As she threw her bird to and fro； the bat
on her neck； she glimpsed Espere take a slice…by。
Where was he now？ No way of telling。 She was banking and the world was coming round。 The
bat was right on her。
She pulled into a crisp turn。 The auspex collision monitor suddenly squealed。
A Commonwealth Cyclone was flying right across her path。
Jagdea slammed the stick forward to avoid it； and went under the delta…wing； her turbofans
shrilling as the Thunderbolt started to power dive。 The ground was rushing up at her； the curlicue
line of the Lida； the squared…off field beds and hydroponic assemblies。 Getting out of this dive was
going to be hard。
Target lock wailed。 Okay then； harder still。 The bat was on her； following her down。
Coming out of this； she’d have to pull three or four Gs。 That was possible； provided the pilot
was ready for it。 She tensed her torso and legs； the recommended “grip” manoeuvre； and yanked the
stick。
Here it came。 Wham！ Already she weighed about a thousand kilos； feeling her heart and lungs
pressing on her diaphragm。 Spots in front of her eyes。 The start of tunnel vision。 “Grip” position
helped hold the blood in her head so she wouldn’t black out。
She levelled off at around fifty metres； so low over the agricultural waterways her plane raised a
bow…wave of spray off the field ponds。 She glimpsed water aurochs scattering across a field。 Bank to
the right； to avoid a pump station’s tower； then left again。 Her slipstream ripped the plastek sheeting
off a field of waterbeet。 The bat was right on her six。 Target lock。 Ping！ Ping！ Ping！
She hit the speed brakes； her harness snapped her back into her seat。 The bat went right over her；
starting to turn and climb desperately。
She viffed into its reactive turn and hammered it with three salvoes from her lascannons。 It
turned to port； apparently unharmed； then suddenly screwed over into a nosedive and planted itself
so hard into the middle of a hydroponics raft； the impact sent a tidal wave ripple flushing out beyond
the field boundaries。
Jagdea turned south； rising； as a column of smoke boiled up from the farmland behind her。
“Lead； you with us？” Van Tull voxed。 “Four…A；” she replied。 “Umbra Five； you okay？”
“Fine；” Espere responded。
The remaining Locusts had fled。 Jagdea had Four…One turn in to escort the rest of the Cyclones
home。 She’d made two kills； with one probable； raising her career tally to nineteen。 Van Tull had
made one； raising his to eleven。
Not too shabby。
Theda MAB South； 16。59
Operations had hoisted blue flags and lit guide…path flares。 The day was fading in the sky； turning
the cloud cover as mauve as a Locust’s paint…job。 Asche’s section was already long home； and
Blansher’s had landed about fifteen minutes ahead of them。 As Jagdea came in； she saw the svelte
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ivory machines of the Apostles； prepping on their hardstands； their noses bristling with black； antlerlike
antennae arrays for night…fighting。 All the other Navy wings were in the air somewhere。 Busy
day。
“Be advised； Operations；” she said as she came in。 “Contrary to briefings； the Archenemy has
air…reach beyond the Makanites。” She’d sent this message four times already； with barely an
acknowledgement。 The bats were over the mountains now。 They had much less time than Ornoff
had figured。
“Operations。 Please recognise my signal。”
“Recognised； Umbra Leader。 It has been sent to Tactical。”
In the fading light； she cleared the bright flare path and settled her Bolt onto its stand； gusting
down on swivelled nozzles with barely a bump。
T