obvious that a huge fight was going on over the Littoral。 Nine of the flight controllers were now
involved； Eads included。 Darrow stood by and watched with mounting concern。
It had become ceaseless； day and night。 They came in on shift； and took the reins of some
ongoing brawl from a controller almost dead on his feet from fatigue。 Weary and strung out； they
handed fights off to replacements at shift rotation。 The enemy attacks—mass bombing operations；
lightning raids； opportunistic intercepts—were happening all the time。
Currently； the rotunda had four points of focus。 Two controllers on the far side of the chamber
were negotiating interceptions on a wave of bombers over Ezraville。 Another had a fighter…onfighter
clash in progress above the Lida Valley。 A fourth had control of a Marauder formation
heading south。 The nine on Darrow’s half of the room were handling the big battle： close on four
hundred and fifty enemy bombers； a hundred escorts and fourteen Imperial wings。
The chatter and roll of voices was incessant。 Reports； plot statements； corrections； vox
transmissions and updates volleyed back and forth。 At their screens； the placement officers were
inscribing hideously complex tactical maps； constantly adding； deleting； rewriting； reassigning。
The controllers were locked in worlds of their own； fixed on their own tracks while trying to
accommodate the overall situation。 Most were head…down over their cogitators； but Eads sat like an
orchestra conductor； sightless gaze fixed directly ahead as his hands danced over the display。
Darrow knew the commander was dog…tired。 His face was pale； and he hadn’t been eating or
sleeping properly。
“Forty…Four； call off。 Nine…One； rise to ten； bearing five…eight…five。 Rimfire； make your track
eleven…two。 Say again； Quarry Leader。 You’re breaking up。 Switch to channel four。 Understood；
contacts west of you at nine kilometres。 Brass Flight； correct and descend to two thousand。 Bat
group under you； turning east； three kilometres。 Sixteen contacts； you should have visual。
Confirmed； Lancer； I show you as attacking。”
The klaxons started to ring； and the deck officer cancelled them at once。 Raid warnings had been
going off regularly； but no one in Operations ever quit for the bunkers。 There was too much at stake。
Twice； Darrow had felt the great chamber shudder as bombs quaked the Thedan ground。
His days with Eads had taught Darrow a lot。 Once he’d picked up the basics； he’d been able to
do more than merely stand by and run simple tasks。 They’d evolved a good working pattern。 Eads
now expected Darrow to monitor peripheral tracks； and pass them over if they impinged on primary
activity。
The displays on Darrow’s substation were alive now。 But he wouldn’t just cut in and interrupt
his chief。 Darrow had developed a habit of touching Eads on the left shoulder to let him know he
wanted his attention。
“Speak；” Eads said。
“Counter track； Flight。 South…east； two hundred kilometres； closing。 Formation of forty。 Modar
reads heat…wash patterns as Locusts。”
“Heading？”
“Four…one…six。”
Eads’s hands drifted。 “That’ll fall into catchment twelve。 Run it to Scalter。”
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“Yes； Flight。”
Darrow noted the details down carefully on a data…slate； took off his headset； and hurried along
the busy companionway behind the controller stations to the third one down from Eads。
Major Frans Scalter had been section leader of Seeker Flight up to the moment it had been
decimated in a dogfight over Ezraville on the morning of the 257th。 Scalter had lost his co…pilot and
his bird had been crippled beyond hope of repair。 It was a miracle Scalter had got home at all。 His
hands and face were still scabbed with healing cuts。
He was an experienced aviator and； in Eads’s opinion； a level…headed pilot officer。 With no
available machine or unit to transfer to； Scalter had been drafted to Operations； to help out with the
increasing pressure。 Shifts were back to back； round the clock。 Operations needed all the clearthinking
and experienced flight personnel it could rope in to work the stations。
Scalter was good at Operations work。 His fine service record stood him in good stead。 Like all of
the Commonwealth fliers who had been switched to Operations duty—Darrow included—Scalter
thought of it as a demotion。 But it was vital work； and he took it seriously。
“Make your height five thousand； Ransack；” Scalter was saying tersely as Darrow came up to
his station。 “Turn eighteen north。 I repeat； north。 If you pull west； you’ll be over them and dead。 Do
as you’re told。”
“Flight？”
Scalter held up a hand without looking round。 “I don’t care what you can see； Ransack。 I can see
more。 Five thousand； eighteen north。 There’s a block of bats under you； out of your visual； that will
mince you if you commit west。 Copy？ Thank you。 Lamplight； as you were。 Clear for eight
kilometres。 Be advised； hostiles west sixteen。”
Scalter looked round at Darrow。 “Junior？”
Darrow held out the slate。 “Coming into your catchment。 Eads wants you advised。”
“Express my thanks；” Scalter said。 Darrow noticed the man’s hands were shaking as he took the
slate。 He thought of Heckel。 Should he say something？
“Anything else； junior？” Scalter asked。 Like all of them； Scalter looked monstrously tired。
Darrow knew why。 It wasn’t just the stress。 All the Commonwealth pilots pulled from active duty
had been spending time in the simulators when they should have been sleeping； keeping their skills
honed。 Darrow had certainly been doing that； and he’d seen Scalter several times in one of the rigs。
The Navy had brought in new training programs； simulation routines for Thunderbolts and
Marauders。 They’d all been eager to try them。 To experience what they were missing。
“Nothing； Flight。”
“Hang on； Darrow；” Scalter said。 “While you’re here。” He turned back to his station； snapped off
a few commands over the air； then scribed some details on a slate。 “Eads will need this。 I was going
to get my junior to run it over； but I’m damned if I know where he is。”
Darrow took the slate。 “Thanks； sir。”
That tremble in the hand。 The first symptoms of a self…destructive fall？ Or just fatigue？ “Off you
go；” said Scalter。
Darrow turned。 As he moved away； he heard Scalter bark； “Ransack； that is not； repeat not；
eighteen north！ Correct； you blasted dunce！”
Darrow dodged back through the tide of hurrying deck juniors； aides and Navy staffers。 He
reached Eads。
“Come about point three…five； Orbis。 Rise and climb； for Throne’s sake。” A pause。 Darrow
waited。 “Orbis Flight； Orbis Flight；” Eads said。 “Your plot is merging with Ganymede Seven…Seven。
Correct and come about。 Yes； I have bats confirmed； extending at eight thousand。 Take your fix on
my beacon mark and turn out； climbing； point three…five。 Be advised； hostiles at eight； breaking。”
Darrow placed his hand on Eads’s arm。
“Harp Flight； proceed north by ten。 Hostiles now at two and closing。 Yes； Darrow？”
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“Plot from Scalter； sir。”
“Out loud； junior。”
“Inbound； broken formation； six thousand variable； heading north…east four…two。 Units from
Gocel FSB。 They’re thirty minutes out； requesting touchdown instructions。”
“How many？”
“Estimates at twenty fighters； mixed； plus extraction transports； heavy。”
“You’ll have to deal with it； Darrow。 I’ve got a major scenario here。 Send the transports to us；
priority。 Discover the operational status of the fighters。 If any can still manage combat； we could use
them。 Get fuel and ammo from them。”
“Yes； Flight。”
Darrow put on his headphones and adjusted his dial。 Eads was already back on the line to his
formations。 Darrow tried to settle his nerves。
“Gocel inbound； Gocel inbound； this is Theda Operations。 Do you copy？”
A crackle。 “Operations； this is Umbra Lead； we have you clear。”
“Report your situation； Umbra Leader。”
“We’ve quit in a hurry； Operations。 Enemy overrun。 Umbra is nine； repeat nine machines。 409
Raptors are now eight； repeat eight。 Spyglass 786； three； repeat three machines。 We have five
transports； heavy。 Flying protective cover on those。 Be advised； hostiles behind us； possible
pursuit。”
“Time on Theda； Umbra Leader？”
“Twenty…six minutes。”
“Transports are cleared for MAB south； priority。 Any of you combat ready？”
“Umbra and Raptors show willingness； Operations。 We came up fuelled and loaded。 Spyglass
were half…tanked； so I’d advise no to them。”
“We could use you； Umbra Lead。 Skirmish bearing nine…two west。”
“Copy that。”
Darrow took a deep breath。 He was making control decisions now。
“Gocel inbound； let the Lightnings cover the transports home。 All other elements break and rise；
nine…two west。”
“Received and executing。”
Over the Littoral； 08。34
Four…tenths cloud and southerly cross…wind。 A pale blanket of sky sneaked with grey。
Jagdea led the turn west； watching as the massive transport ships sailed away north with their
Lightning escort； lost into the cloud。
“Raptor Flight； this is Umbra Lead。 Blaguer is gone； Throne rest him。 Operations has just called
the play； as I’m sure you heard。 I’m leading now； so nuzzle up and make nice。 We can argue on the
ground later。 Any objections？”
“Umbra Leader； this is Raptor Two。 Lead us well； and we’ll follow you to hell and back。”
Jagdea smiled。 She’d met Blaguer’s deputy a number of times during their brief stay at Lake
Gocel。 His name was Rapmund； a decent sort； broad…faced； quietly professional。 His confident
response pleased her。
“Four diamonds； I’ll fly sprint；” she ordered。 “Nice and slow； no clipping。 We’ve got enemies
enough out here without killing each other。”
With a burst of throttle； she ran forward then watched her rear pict…screens as the other machines
settled into formation。 Four diamond shapes； each containing four Bolts。 They settled in with
extraordinary simplicity； Raptors and Umbra mixed。 Cooperation at last。 No grandstanding； no
pecking order。 Just air warriors； uniting without argument for a common good。
“Lead to wing； compliments to all。 This is how the Imperium conquers its foes。”
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Jagdea’s Thunderbolt was flying ahead of the four diamonds； directly in front of the second
formation； creating an asymmetrical structure。 Diamond Two was at her tail； Diamond One at her
four o’clock； Diamond Three at her seven； and Diamond Four seven o’clock of Diamond Three。 She
was flying what the Navy called sprint； and what the Phantine knew as pointer； the sharp end of a
medium； ranged fighter shoal。 She got the Raptor pilots to vox in their numbers and positions；
marking the details on the data…slate fixed to her thigh。 Then she flicked channel。
“Operations； this is Umbra Leader。 Umbra and Raptor elements now under me as one flight。 Do
you have us？”
“On the modar； Umbra。 Good and clear。 Adjust heading three points and climb to eight
thousand。 Skirmish is four kilometres and closing。”
“Copy that。”
They flew on through a cloud bank； billowing like fog； and then came clear。 The skirmish was
ahead of them。
Skirmish。 What an inadequate word。 The voice of Operations sounded like a boy； a child。
This was war。
Hundreds of machines whirled and danced in the sky across ninety cubic kilometres of