but the young man spared him not a second glance and simply hoisted in his kit bag and climbed up
after it。
Only the woman paused。 She had cold； searching eyes and a slim jaw that seemed to be set
permanently in a gritted clench。 Her black hair was cut unflatteringly short。
“Transport to Theda MAB South？” she asked Kaminsky。 She spoke with an offworld accent that
sounded rather odd and nasal to him。
“Yes； mamzel。 To the dispersal station。”
“That’s ‘commander’；” she corrected； hauling her lithe figure up into the transport。 “Carry on。”
14
Kaminsky waited for the last of them to climb aboard； then shut the gate。 He limped back round
to the cab and started the engine。
Phantine。 That’s what it had said on the woman’s silver shoulder badge。 Phantine XX； embossed
on a scroll backed by a double…headed eagle that clutched lightning bolts in its talons。
Kaminsky had been a student of aviation history since childhood and； though he’d heard of a
world called Phantine； he had no idea why a flight wing should bear the name。
He drove them through Vilberg borough and turned south towards the base。 On Scholastae
Street； a pair of Commonwealth Cyclones went over at about five hundred metres； turning north and
west。 Kaminsky looked up to watch them pass。
In the driving mirror； he saw the fliers in the back do the same。
Theda Old Town； 07。35
The service had finished； and the faithful were filing out； most stopping to light candles at the votary
shrine。 Candles for the lost； or those who might soon be。
As usual； as she did every morning； Beqa Meyer lit three： one for Gait； one for her brother； Eido；
and one for whoever might need it。
She was tired。 Night shift at the manufactory had really taken it out of her。 It had been a struggle
not to sleep through the hierarch’s reading。 If she’d been any warmer； she surely would have dozed
off。 But her coat was too thin： a second…hand summer coat； not even lined。 Perhaps next month； with
her next wages and what she had put aside； she’d be able to pick up a thermal jacket or better from
the Munitorum almshouse。
As she turned from the candle…stand； she knocked against someone waiting their turn to light an
offering。 It was the man she’d seen by the church door on her way in for the service。 Tall； darkhaired；
an offworlder。 He had a sad face。 He was dressed like a soldier； and had that scent of
machine oil and fyceline about him。
“My pardon； mamzel；” he said at once。 She nodded “no harm”； but kept a distance as she went
by。 He’d been talking to himself when she’d first seen him。 A stranger； maybe with battle…psychosis。
That was the sort of trouble she didn’t need。
In fact； the only thing she needed was her rest。 She could be home by a quarter to the hour； and
that would give her three hours’ sleep before she’d have to rise and dress for her day job at the pier。
When that was over； at evening bell； she’d have an hour to nap before the night shift at the
manufactory began。
She hurried out through the templum doors into a cold street where full daylight now shone； and
made her weary way back towards her hab。
Over the Thedan Peninsula； 07。37
“Hunt Two； you’re making oily smoke。”
The flight leader’s anxious voice cut over the vox。 There was no immediate response from Hunt
Two。 Darrow sat up in his seat and scanned around in the morning light。 The scrub plains and grass
breaks of the Peninsula swept by； two thousand metres under him； a wide expanse of greys； dull
whites and speckled greens。
Down at his four were Hunt Eight and Hunt Eleven； with Hunt Leader running to starboard on
the same deck as Darrow himself。 Hunt Two and Hunt Sixteen were off and low at Darrow’s port。
Six planes。 Six planes were all that was left from the engagement。 They’d left all the others as
flaming pyres littering the snowcaps of the Makanite Mountains。
And it might only have been five。 Darrow knew he surely would have been chalked by that
white killer had not Hunt Leader； sweeping back in a desperate effort to rally his few remaining
machines； run in at the last moment； cannons blazing； and driven it off。
15
Major Heckel—Hunt Leader—kept asking Darrow if he was okay as they pulled what remained
of the formation back together。 Heckel sounded extraordinarily worried； as if he felt Darrow might
have simply scared himself to death in the frantic chase。 But it was probably shock and the ache of
responsibility。 So many cadets dead。 One of the squadron’s black days。
And there had been so many in the last few months。 Darrow wondered how officers like the
major coped。
But then Heckel was only three years Darrow’s senior； and had gained his rank through the
accelerated promotion caused by severe losses。
“Hunt Two。 Respond。” Even over the distorting vox； that tone in Heckel’s voice was clear as
day。
“Hunt Leader； I’m all right。”
He wasn’t。 Darrow had a good angle down at Hunt Two。 Not only was he cooking out a steady
stream of grubby smoke； he was losing altitude and speed。
What was it？ Coolant？ Smouldering electrics？ Some other lethal eventuality Darrow hadn’t even
thought of？
How long had they got？ By his own map and bearing they were forty…six minutes out from
Theda MAB North； longer if Hunt Two maintained its rate of deceleration。 Darrow’s fuel gauge still
showed full； but by Heckel’s calculation； none of them were likely to have more than about fifty
minutes in them。 Especially not Darrow； given his excessive aerobatics。
“Hunt Flight…” Heckel’s voice came over the comm。 He paused； as if frantically trying to make
up his mind。 “Hunt Flight； we’re going to divert to Theda South。 That should shave fifteen； maybe
twenty minutes off the flying time。 Confirm and line up on me。”
Darrow confirmed and heard the others do so too。 It was a good decision。 Flight command
would rather get six Wolfcubs back at the wrong MAB than none back at all。
Darrow switched channels and heard Heckel banter back and forth with Operations as the
reroute was authorised。
Then he heard the knocking again。
He was about to call it in when Hunt Eight began screeching over the vox。
“Hunt Two！ Look at Hunt Two！”
Darrow craned his neck around。 The wounded Cub was gently arcing down away from the
formation。 Its smoke trail was thicker and darker now。 It looked heavy and sluggish； as if much
more gravity was weighing down on it than on the other planes。
“Hunt Two！ Respond！” Darrow heard Hunt Leader call。 “Hunt Two！ Respond！”
A faint crackle； “—think I can hold the—”
“Hunt Two！ Bail； for Throne’s sake； Edry！ Cadet Edry… Clear your plane now before you lose
too much height！”
Nothing。 The Wolfcub was just a dot at the end of a line of smoke far behind and below them
now。 “Edry！ Cadet Edry！”
Come on； Edry。 Get out of there。 Darrow strained to see。 With their fuel loads so low； none of
them could risk turning back。 Come on； Edry。 Come on！ Let us see a “chute！ Let us see a “chute；
Edry； before—
A small flash； far away in the grey…green quilt of the landscape。 A small flash of fire and no
“chute at all。
Theda MAB South； 07。40
By the time the transport turned off the highway onto the field approach way； it had been joined in
convoy by three others。 They waited in turn to be checked off by weary…looking PDF sentries at the
west gate and then rumbled on down a steep cutting onto the field basin。
16
Commander Bree Jagdea raised herself up on the hard bench of the jolting transport and looked
around。 Theda Military Air…Base South covered over tetres of low land southwest
of the city itself。 She could smell the coast a few kilometres north； and the sea air had layered a
light morning haze across the field that the sun was just beginning to cook off。
Vast defences ringed the field。 Ditches and dykes； blast fences and stake lines； armoured nests
for Hydra batteries； pillbox emplacements for raised missile cylinders。 There was a patched
perimeter track； busy at this hour with military trucks and weapons carriers moving both ways； and a
leaner inner ring of anti…air batteries。 To the south end of the field stood the great housing hangars
and rockcrete armouries； to the north Operations control and the stark derricks and pylons of the
vox； auspex and modar systems。
A hash…shape of crossed airstrips covered the main inner area； the primary runways large enough
to manage the big reciprocating…engined bombers the locals flew。 Jagdea saw a few of them parked
on a hardstand in the distance。 Magogs； big and old and ugly。 They’d used them back home on
Phantine during the final offensive； desperate to get aloft anything that could fly and fight。 Here they
were a standard bombing mainstay。 No wonder Enothis had been punished so hard。
But most of the local machines had been shipped out to clear the field for the newcomers。
Jagdea and her flight had arrived in darkness the night before。 This was their first proper look at
the base。 It would serve； it would have to。
Work gangs from the Munitorum were already busy making field conversions。 Labourers were
proofing up more hard…wall silos for the arriving machines； and in one place were beginning to
dozer up one of the old runways to make additional parking bunkers。 The newcomers’ aircraft； over
seventy of them already； were dark shapes under netting in the clusters of anti…blast revetments to
the east。 There was a muddle of activity—chugging generators； clunking excavators； bare…chested
rock…drill operators； growing heaps of spoil—all across the inner landscape of the field。
Jagdea glanced at the chronograph strapped around the thick cuff of her flightsuit。 They were
right on time。 Their transport had left the perimeter track and was bumping towards the nearest of
the huge drome hangars。
“Up and ready。 Umbra Flight；” she ordered。 The eleven aviators under her command gathered
up their kits as the transport rolled to a stop。
Jagdea jumped down and took a deep breath。 “Here we go；” she muttered to Milan Blansher； her
number two。 Blansher was a grizzled veteran in his forties； his career tally of twenty…two kills the
finest in Umbra Flight。 He said little； but she trusted him with her life。 He had unusually pale；
distant eyes for a Phantine and sported a thick grey moustache； partly to lend himself an air of
avuncular seniority； mostly to help conceal the ridge of white scar tissue where a piece of shell
casing had split his face from his right nostril； down across both lips； to the point of his chin。
“Here we go indeed；” he murmured； and hoisted his kit onto his shoulder。 The others clambered
down。 Van Tull； Espere； Larice Asche with her hair up in a non…regulation bun； Del Ruth； Clovin；
the boy Marquall； Waldon； forever whistling a melody…less tune； Zemmic； jangling with his cluster
of lucky charms； Cordiale； Ranfre。 Almost all of them made the superstitious bob down to touch the
ground。
Vander Marquall didn’t。 He was gazing across the field； watching three machines of the
Enothian Commonwealth Air Force crank up for launch。 They were powerful； twin…engine deltaform
planes； an Interceptor pattern known as Cyclones。 Started from trolley…mounted primer coils；
their massive piston engines sucked and thundered into life； kicking out plumes of blue smoke from