directly to the war…plane’s gunsights by spinal plugs。
At three hundred metres； the Wolfcub pulled out； dragging a long； aching turn up and away to
avoid the ragged peaks； its jet engine spitting and foundering。
Another surprise。 Another admirable display of skill。 Or luck。
Obarkon tilted his stick and nudged the reactive thrusters； pulling out of the dive nonballistically；
mocking the laboured struggles of the smaller plane。 It had been locked in his gunsight
for two minutes now。 The target finder was chiming over and over again。
Attention…
Target found。
Target found。
Target found。
Why hadn’t he killed it？
I want to see what you’ve got； Obarkon thought。
The Wolfcub veered around a peak…top； letting the cross of its shadow flicker across the sunlit
snow； then tipped its wings hard to steer around another crag。 Obarkon kept his Hell Razor almost
level to execute a following path； ripping through the air like a heat…hungry missile。 The Wolfcub
was still in his crosshairs。
Suddenly； around the next peak； it disappeared。 Obarkon frowned and swung about； assuming
the boy had finally misadventured and flown into a cliff wall。 For the first time in nearly three
minutes； the target finder bleeped lock lost… lock lost… lock lost…
No； not dead。 There he was。 The little wretch。 He’d somehow flick…rolled the Wolfcub around
the promontory and swung back the way he’d come； gunning low on full thrust。
Obarkon lifted his shiny black…clad hands off the stick and clapped。 Very fine indeed。
A warning note sounded and Obarkon snapped it off with a curse。 He was down to reserve now；
almost at the critical fuel threshold。 That meant he had no more than two minutes left before he had
to turn for home。 More than that； and he wouldn’t make it to Natrab echelon aerie。
“Game’s done now；” he hissed through chapped lips。 He surged the Hell Razor forward and it
went fluidly； responding perfectly； sure as a shark。 “Reacquire；” he told the auto sight。 He’d made
five kills already； another ace day； but this boy would make a nice round six。 He’d dallied too long；
playing games。
The target pipper chased and bleeped。 The Wolfcub was pulling wide rolls and staying low；
keeping the twisting furrows of the peak line between itself and the hunter。
Target denied…
Target denied…
Target denied…
Obarkon cursed in the name of his most foul god。 The little bastard was slipping away。 By the
skin of his teeth。 By the claws。 He had allowed too much grace。 Now the enemy was mocking him。
He got a partial target； then lost it again as the fugitive Wolfcub banked perilously around a
crag。 They both passed so close that snow blizzarded up off the crag in their combined wash。
Another partial。 Obarkon fired。 Dazzling tracers laddered away from his machine and cut the
cold； mountaintop air。 Miss。
Another turn； another partial； another futile burst。 Obarkon throttled up and soared around； using
reactive thrust to viff his machine out wide on the Wolfcub’s eight。
It was running for all it was worth； burning at full thrust。 Obarkon got a true tone at last。
Target lock。
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Target lock。
Target lock。
“Goodnight；” he muttered； bored of the game now。 Hardwired thumbs dug at the trigger paddle。
Cannon fire lanced down through the air ahead of him。 Obarkon felt a tiny vibration and a
sudden display told him he’d been holed in one wing…sweep。 Out of the sun； a second Wolfcub was
diving on his tail； its nose lit up with muzzle flash。 Just a glance told the expert chieftain that this
second Cub was piloted by an idiot； a man far less capable than the spirited boy he had been
chasing。 It was coming over too shallow； wobbling badly； desperately。 It had no real target lock。
But still； it was behind him and gunning madly。
The warning sounded again； impatient。 He’d reached critical fuel threshold。
He was done here。 Enough。 Obarkon traversed the reactor ducts and powered off almost vertical；
pulling out of the chase。 The second Wolfcub went by under him as he climbed； bemused by the
sudden exit。
Obarkon climbed into the sunlight； gaining altitude and speed。 He turned his beloved Hell Razor
south。
This broiling air war was just getting started。 There would be another day。
And another kill。
Hotel Imperial； Theda； 07。23
Kaminsky made a good run across the northern sectors and arrived outside the Hotel Imperial well
inside the time Senior Pincheon had allocated for the job。 The only slight delay had been a queue of
market stallers lining up to get onto Congress Plaza for the midweek moot。 These days； it seemed to
Kaminsky； the Old Town kept to its bed until after eight； as if afraid of what horrors might roam in
the dark hours of night。
He rolled in under the wrought iron frame of the hotel’s awning； quietly wondering how long it
would be before even that was taken for war metal； and glanced around。 There was no one about
except for an ancient old porter dozing on a folding chair amongst a half…dozen deactivated cargo
servitors； and a gaggle of housekeepers smoking lho…sticks together by the service door down the
side of the building。
Kaminsky was about to get down out of the cab when the glass and varnished wood of the
hotel’s front doors flashed in the early sunlight； and a mob of dark figures strode out purposefully
towards him。
They were fliers； he knew that at once by the swagger of them； but not locals。 Nor were they
wearing the black and grey coats and flight armour of Navy aviators。 There was at least a dozen；
dressed in quilted taupe flightsuits and brown leather coats； carrying equipment packs loosely over
their shoulders。 They were unusually tall and well…proportioned individuals； slender and uniformly
black…haired where the average Enothian was robust and fair。
And they weren’t all male。 At least three of them—including； it seemed； the figure leading them
towards the transport—were women。
Kaminsky got out and walked round to the back of the transport to drop the tailgate。 He nodded
a greeting to the first of the newcomers； trying to get a decent look at the insignia on the coat sleeve；
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。”
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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 Pe