Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第10部分

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sprouted　from　the　floor　like　standing　stones。　Each　one；　panelled　with　wood；　its　instruments　turned　in
brass；　had　its　own　valve…screen　pict　display　and　hololithic　repeater。
All　the　personnel　present　currently　stood　or　sat　silently；　heads　slightly　bowed。
A　rector　from　the　Navy　chaplaincy；　imposing　in　his　selpic　blue　robes　and　sable　ruff；　was
intoning　a　rite　of　blessing　upon　the　station。　As　he　spoke；　one　hand　on　his　breast；　the　other　tucked
behind　his　back；　tech…priests　moved　around　the　room；　anointing　the　stations　and　offering　holy　water
from　gold　ampullas　to　those　personnel　in　need　of　personal　benediction。　Darrow　noticed　most
received　it；　even　the　higher　ranking　staffers。
“Let　this　day　be　profitable　and　successful；”　the　rector　said。　“Let　the　strength　of　will　and　the
clarity　of　sight　that　is　the　province　of　the　most　high　and　glorious　Imperator；　he　that　is　the　God…
Emperor　of　all　Mankind；　inform　your　work　this　day。　May　his　glory　be　everlasting；　and　his　beacon　of
enlightenment　shine　to　us　all　in　the　darkness。　For　the　Golden　Throne；　everlasting；　and　in　his　name’s
sake；　let　his　will　be　done。”
The　rector　made　the　sign　of　the　aquila　across　his　breast；　and　everybody　did　the　same。
The　deck　officer　stood；　nodded　to　the　rector；　and　announced；　“Day　shift　begins；　255；　773。M41。”
At　once；　activity　resumed。　A　sudden　wash　of　voices；　of　un…muted　vox　channels。　Deft　hands
chattered　over　metal　keys。　Eads　nodded　at　Darrow　to　follow　him。
As　a　flight　controller；　Eads’s　station　was　one　of　the　primary　control　consoles。　Darrow　helped
him　into　the　high…backed　seat　and　stowed　the　sensor　cane　where　Eads　could　find　it。
“Principal　cortical　plug　and　tech…reader　link；　please；”　Eads　said　as　he　settled　himself。　Darrow
glanced　around；　and　unhooked　the　two　leads　from　a　bracket　on　the　console’s　side。　He　handed　them
to　Eads。　Eads　read　the　raised　identifier　stamps　on　the　plugs　with　the　tips　of　his　fingers；　then　inserted
the　cortical　plug　into　the　dermal　socket　behind　his　left　ear。　The　other　lead；　from　which　withered
parchment　labels　dangled；　went　into　a　second　dermal　socket　under　his　hairline　at　the　base　of　his
skull。　Eads　winced　slightly　as　it　went　in。
The　console　came　to　immediate　life。　The　hololith　display　lit　up　and　began　to　rotate。　The　pict
screen　shimmered　into　life；　showing　a　scrolling　menu　of　tight…beamed　data。　Darrow　knew　that　Eads
was　now　seeing　all　this　for　himself；　in　his　mind。　Eads　began　to　review　the　details。
Darrow　looked　around　again。　Each　of　the　flight　controllers　was　attended　by　at　least　one　junior
aide。　All　of　the　other　controllers　were　sighted；　although　one　had　bulky　augmetic　optics；　but　many
had　enhanced　their　overview　with　cortical　links。
“Vox　mic；　please；”　Eads　said。
Darrow　unhooked　that　too；　played　out　the　flex；　and　helped　Eads　to　fit　it　around　his　ear　so　the
bead　was　in　place　and　the　wire　stalk　set　by　his　lips。
“This　is　Eads；　7513；”　Eads　said　softly。　“I　am　now　on　station。”　He　was　answered　by　a　murmur　of
vox　responses。
His　fingers　began　to　glide　over　the　mechanical　keyboard。　The　data　on　the　screen　altered。　The
cortical　plug　was　simulating　a　version　of　the　console　in　Eads’s　head　so　he　could　operate　it。
“Climate　plot；　please；”　Eads　said　to　the　link。　A　swollen　3D　image　bloomed　across　the　hololith。
“Tactical…　and　quadrant　operations。”　More　changes；　more　overlays。　Hard　yellow　lines　showing
aircraft　tracks；　dotted　red　lines　of　mission　sequences；　winking　green　runes　positioning　the　machines
themselves。
“There’s　a　spare　headset　if　you　want　to　listen；”　Eads　remarked。
Darrow　took　the　opportunity。　What　he　heard　as　he　wired　up　was　a　nonsense　of　human　and
machine　voices；　digital　transmissions；　and　binary　codes　and　atmospherics；　which　sucked　and　roared
behind　the　voices。
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“Use　the　dial　there　to　select；”　Eads　pointed。　“It’ll　seem　overwhelming　at　first；　but　you’ll　learn　to
differentiate　and　fine　tune。　For　the　next　two　hours；　we’re　assigned　flight　control　for　two　fighter
units：　Umbra　Flights　Four…One　and　Four…Two。　There　are　the　mission　parameters；　on　screen。”
Suddenly　nervous；　Darrow　read　the　details；　trying　not　to　miss　anything。　Two　intercept　units；　four
machines　in　each。　Routing　down　across　the　Peninsula　to　the　headwaters　of　the　Lida；　hunting
intruders。　Time　of　launch；　08。15。
He　looked　at　the　brass　chronometer　mounted　above　the　console　top。　It　read　08。14。
Theda　MAB　South；　08。15
“Straps　tight？”　Racklae　shouted；　barely　audible　over　the　rising　howl　of　the　fanjets。
Marquall　nodded。　Racklae　gave　him　a　finger…and…thumb　“O”；　then　ordered　the　ground　crew
clear。　They　jumped　off；　the　last　of　the　hoses　disconnected　and　stowed；　rolling　the　primer　cart　back。
One　fitter　carried　the　yellow　boarding　ladder　away。
Perched　beside　the　cockpit；　Racklae　tapped　his　ears　and　mouth。
Marquall　nodded　again。　He　keyed　the　vox。
“Test；　test；”　he　said。　“Umbra　Eight；　Umbra　Eight；　am　I　loud？”
“Umbra　Eight；　this　is　Lead。　You’re　loud　and　live。　Okay　there；　Marquall？”
“Yes；　ma’am。　Lights　are　green；　I　repeat　green。　Ready　to　lift。”
“Stand　by；　Eight。”
Marquall　made　the　sign　of　the　aquila；　then　looked　up　at　Racklae。　He　showed　him　a　thumb。　The
chief　fitter　grinned；　saluted　him；　and　closed　the　canopy。　Immediately；　the　sound　changed。　The　wail
of　the　jets　was　dulled；　but　Marquall　was　suddenly　contained　in　a　resonating　box　of　ultrasonic
vibrations。
Marquall　checked　the　canopy　lock；　then　made　a　gesture　almost　like　a　genuflection　to　his　chief。
Racklae　saw　it；　nodded；　then　jumped　down　and　hurried　over　into　cover　behind　the　revetment　wall　of
the　pad　enclosure。
“Umbra　Eight。　Locked　and　ready。”
“Got　you；　Eight。”
“Umbra　Ten；　ready。”
“Umbra　Seven。　Fit。”
“Stand　by；”　Jagdea　said　again。　“Four…Two　are　lifting　out　ahead　of　us。”
There　was　a　warble　of　voices　across　the　vox…channel；　then　a　wailing　rush　that　was　loud　even
with　the　canopy　down　and　helmet　on。　From　hardstands　nearby；　four　Thunderbolts　hoisted
themselves　up　vertically　into　the　air。　The　space　beneath　each　one　was　a　heat…distorted　wash　of
vectored　thrust。　Blansher；　Asche；　Cordiale　and　Ranfre；　Umbra　Two：　Four；　Eleven　and　Twelve
respectively。
On　Blansher’s　expert　lead；　they　began　to　climb　and　move　forward　as　their　vector　ducts　gently
swung　around。　In　neat　formation；　they　rose；　gaining　speed。　As　they　crossed　away　down　the　length　of
the　field；　their　primary　exhausts　lit　up　hot　and　yellow　as　full　thrust　switched　through　them。　Already；
they　were　receding；　climbing　higher；　accelerating。
“Operations；　this　is　Four…One　Leader；”　Marquall　heard　Jagdea　say。　“Permission　to　rise。”
“Four…One　Leader；　this　is　Operations。　You　are　cleared　for　immediate　launch。　Good　hunting。”
“Four…One；　this　is　Lead。　Let’s　go。”
Marquall　opened　the　throttle　and　felt　his　machine　quiver；　as　if　it　had　become　enraged。　Maximum
thrust。　He　felt　the　gentle　wobble　as　The　Smear　left　the　stand。　Even　though　it　expended　masses　of
fuel　reserve；　Marquall　preferred　vector　take…offs。　He　hated　ramp　launches；　and　the　bludgeoning
smack　of　the　rocket　boost。　He　was　thankful　that　no　ramps　had　yet　been　erected　at　Theda。
He　glanced　around；　compensating　for　the　wallow　of　his　rising　Bolt。　To　his　left；　Umbra　Ten　was
coming　up。　Marquall　could　almost　hear　Zemmic　fiddling　with　his　rosary　of　lucky　charms　as　his　bird
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rose。　To　his　right；　Jagdea　lifted　to　vertical；　and　Clovin；　two　stands　down　from　her。　Forty　metres　up；
perfect　station　keeping。
“Wait　for　it；”　Jagdea’s　voice　cautioned。　Blansher　favoured　the　slow；　gentlemanly　climb　from
vertical　to　full　forward；　but　Jagdea　preferred　the　hammer　start。　The　fitter　crews　knew　it。　They’d
already　hit　the　bunkers。
“Wait…”
Fifty　metres。
“On　me；　extend；　full　thrust；”　Jagdea　ordered。
Her　machine　roared　forward；　crossing　the　field　at　fifty　metres；　ducts　violently　thrown　to　level
flight。　Clovin　gunned　after　her；　then　Zemmic。　Marquall　nursed　his　throttle　and　then　bulleted　after
them。
The　ground　shot　away　underneath　them　like　speeded…up　pict　images。　The　punch　kicked　Marquall
back　into　his　seat。　At　full　burn；　they’d　cleared　the　deadlands　beyond　the　field　and　had　already
reached　close　to　six　hundred　kph　before　they　formed　up　and　began　to　rise。
“Four…One　Leader；　we　have　cleared　the　field。　Climbing　now　to　five　thousand。　Heading　southwest；
ten…eight…four。”
“Ten…eight…four；　copy　Leader；”　Operations　replied。　“Nice　launch。　Maybe　you　can　apologise　to
our　eardrums　later。”
“Copy　that；　Operations。　Fast　up；　fast　away。　That’s　the　way　we　do　things　where　I　come　from。”
“Understood。　What　else　do　you　do　where　you　come　from？”
“We　kill　bats。”
“Copy　that；　Leader。　Good　to　know。　Make　your　level　nine　thousand　and　turn　south…west　eleveneight…
five。”
“Eleven…eight…five。　Understood。　Four…One；　check　in。”
“Four…One；　Seven。　On　your　lead。”
“Four…One；　Ten。　At　your　heels；　to　port。　Nice　day　for　it。”
“Clear　as　a　bell；　Zemmic。　Count　your　lucky　charms。”
Marquall　adjusted　his　mask。　“Four…One；　Eight。　Right　with　you。”
“Stay　close；　Marquall。　This　is　going　to　be　a　breeze。”　It　was。　He　knew　it　was。　He　was　going　to
make　sure　it　was。
He’d　screwed　up　on　his　virgin　outing。　He　could　still　see　Pers　Espere；　sitting　in　his　cockpit；　blood
on　everything。　The　image　was　in　his　dreams　and　his　waking　thoughts。
But　Jagdea　hadn’t　given　up　on　him。　He　could　do　this。　He　was　Phantine。　He　wasn’t　going　to
screw　up　a　second　time。
Natrab　Echelon　Aerie；　Interior　Desert；　08。16
Barbed　limbs　glinting　in　the　fierce　light；　the　slave　servitors　carried　him　out　onto　the　foredeck　of　the
aerie　in　his　burnished　litter。　His　pearl…white　machine　sat　in　its　launch　cradle　below　him；　the　desert
light　winking　off　its　stark　lines。
The　servitors　were　moaning　a　litany　of　providence　and　blood…hunger。　Flight　Warrior　Khrel　Kas
Obarkon　smiled。　The　litter　came　to　a　stop。　Obarkon　disconnected　the　heavy　golden　pipes　that　linked
his　body　to　the　carriage’s　life…support　and　slid　his　helmet　down　into　place　so　that　it　locked。
He　pulled　back　the　silk　drape　and　stepped　out　onto　the　sunburned　deck。　Tall；　lean；　encased　from
throat　to　foot　in　glinting　black　grav…armour；　he　raised　his　spidery　arms；　and　the　slaves　fell　to　their
knees。
The　sun　was　still　low　in　the　sky；　and　the　platform　beneath　his　feet　rocked　slightly　as　the　massive
land　carrier　trundled　on　over　the　dunes。
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Obarkon　waved　a　skeletal　hand　and　one　of　the　servitors　ran　up　with　his　speaking　cone。　Engraved
and　ornate；　it　was　a　bell　fashioned　from　solid　gold；　mounted　on　a　bronze　stand。　Obarkon　took　hold
of　the　dangling　lead　and　plugged　it　into　his　larynx　socket。
“Fifth　echelon！”　His　digitally　corrupted　voice　boomed　out　over　the　upper　and　lower　launch
decks。　“You　who　are　of　the　Anarch；　so　sworn　to　he　that　is　Sek！　Heed　me！”
All　along　the　burnished　decks　of　the　carrier；　the　flight　warriors　of　the　fifth　echelon　stood　to
attention　beside　their　cradled　machines。　Their　litter　bearers　were　retreating　into　the　blast　cavities。
“The　Anarch　wills　us；　so　we　obey！　Who　shall　find　blood　in　the　air？”
“We　will！”　the　flight　warriors　howled　back。
“Who　will　make　the　kill？”
“We　will！”　The　decks　shook。
“Who　will　stain　the　earth　with　the　enemy’s　life？”
“We　will！”
“To　your　machines；　your　chieftain　commands！”
Raising　a　bloody　cheer；　the　flight　warriors　clumped　to　their　waiting　bats。　Obarkon　plucked　out
the　speaker　cord　and　walked　over　to　his　Hell　Razor　unsupported。　He　insisted　on　doing　this；　even
though　he　could　last　less　than　ten　minutes　without　full　life…support。　It　was　a　show　of　personal
strength　that　the　crew　admired。
Servitors　lifted　him　into　his　cockpit　and　automated　systems　linked　him　in。　He　breathed　more
easily　again　once　the　Hell　Razor’s　augmetics　took　over　the　maintenance　of　his　life。
The　spinal　plugs　engaged。　The　systems　came　to　life；　feeding　their　data　of　fuel　tolerance；　payload
and　energy　into　his　cortex。　His　eyes　saw　through　the　guns　now。
The　canopy　closed；　shutting　him　in　darkness。
Displays　lit　in　his　head。
“Clear！”　he　ordered。
A　whining　began；　rose；　exploded。
“Launch！”　he　commanded。
The　ion　catapults　rose　to　power　and　discharged。　The　pearl…white　Hell　Razor　fired　off　the　carrier
deck　into　the　sky。　Only　his　grav…armour　prevented　Obarkon　from　being　crushed　into　his　seat。
Behind　him；　like　darts　from　a　bow；　twenty　more　machines　launched　into　the　desert　air；　some
crimson；　some　mauve；　some　silver；　some　black。
They　formed　up　around　him　as　he　turned　west；　towards　the　mountains。　Obarkon　switched　to　his
rear　pict　relays　and　watched　Natrab　aerie　fall　away　behind　him。　The　scale　of　it　always　delighted
him。　A　leviathan；　fully　a　kilometre　long；　bristling　with　weapon　ports；　riding　across　the　dune　sea　on　a
hundred　bogeys　of　five…metre　diameter　wheels。
Such　was　the　might　of　the　Anarch；　sworn　unto　him　that　is　the　High　Archon；　blessed　Gaur。
“Echelon；”　he　said；　adjusting　his　link。　“Let　us　kill。”
Palace　Pier；　09。12
“You’re　early；”　Beqa　said。
Viltry　shrugged。　“The　sortie　was　called　off。　Repairs；　you　see。　Maybe　this　afternoon。”
“Breakfast？”
“Please。”
“I　have　eggs；　You　eat　eggs；　right？”
“Not　fish　eggs？”
“No；　not　fish　eggs。”
“Then；　yes。”
“Have　a　seat；”　she　said。
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Viltry　wandered　over　to　his　favoured　table。　The　cafe　was　quite　busy。　Old　folk　out　for　breakfast；
and　groups　of　manufactory　workers　chasing　a　hot　meal　after　their　night　shift。
Outside；　the　sky　was　spare　and　pale；　a　strong　wind　chasing　the　clouds　out　of　the　air。　The　sea　was
dark　and　moody；　rolling　with　white　horses。
A　good　flying　day。
“You　know　him？”　asked　Letrice；　dubiously。
“Who？”
“The　mental　case。　The　flier。”
“Yes；”　said　Beqa；　turning　the　skillet。　“He’s　okay。”
Over　the　Lida；　10。01
They　got　the　call　from　Operations　about　twenty　minutes　before　Jagdea　was　going　to　throw　it　in　for
the　day。　Relief　flight　under　attack；　urgent　support　requested。　According　to　the　grid　plot；　the　fuss　was
less　than　fifteen　kilometres　south　of　them。　Jagdea　immediately　instructed　them　to　crank　to　max　and
burn　away　down　the　valley。　She　called　in　Blansher’s　four　as　support。　His　unit　was　coming　round　in　a
patrol　sweep　forty　kilometres　north。
Marquall　swallowed；　trying　to　stay　sharp。　They　were　at　about　four　thousand　now；　and　pushing　it
to　twenty…one；　twenty…two　hundred　kilometres。　The　world　was　a　passing　rush。　They　went　over　a
straggled　collection　of　agricultural　stations；　then　a　small　town；　then　a　long　series　of　derelict
chemical　plants。　The　river　basin　was　stained　florid　pink　and　maroon　from　years　of　manufacture。
Ahead　of　them；　a　vast　plume　of　black　smoke　rose　into　the　sky。
His　mouth　was　dry。
“Gunsights；”　Jagdea　voxed。
Marquall　deftly　activated　and　aligned　his　targeter。　“Select　primary　weapons。”
No　mistakes　this　time。　Guns　live；　toggled　over　to　the　“las”　setting。
The　relief　flight　had　been　composed　of　six　superheavy　Navy　transports；　Onero…pattern；　with　an
escort　of　six　Lightnings；　shipping　desperately　needed　fuel　out　to　the　retreating　ground　forces　in　the
desert。　Full　of　promethium　jelly　and　motor　oils；　the　lumbering　six…engined　transports　were
ponderous。　Easy　targets。
Four…One　came　in　on　what　looked　like　a　feeding　frenzy。　One　transport　was　already　down；
having　engulfed　a　square　kilometre…plus　of　the　arable　valley　in　its　firestorm。　The　bloom　of　smoke；
fat　and　black；　was　what　they’d　seen　on　the　approach。　Another　had　an　engine　fire　and　was　dropping
badly。　At　least　three　of　the　Lightnings　had　been　stung　out　of　the　air。
No　less　than　fifteen　black　and　crimson　bats　swirled　in　and　out　of　the　convoy　formation；　evading
the　tracer　streams　from　the　transporters’　turrets。　Hell　Razors。　Before　they　even　had　range；　Marquall
witnessed　a　jet…black　Razor　roll　in　and　punch　lasfire　into　the　silver　flanks　of　the　tail…end　Onero。　It
went　up　in　mid…air。　Bright；　like　a　suddenly…lit　sun；　a　massive　torus　of　white　flame　so　hot　and　fierce
no　shred　of　debris　survived　vaporisation。　He　winced　at　the　glare；　blinded　for　a　moment。
The　vox　bleeped。　Jagdea’s　voice　was　hard　and　curt。　Four　words：　“Split　up。　Kill　them。”
Zemmic　rolled　away　left；　Clovin　right。　Marquall　stayed　at　Jagdea’s　seven　until　they　were　right
into　the　brawl；　then　broke　left　as　she　split　off。　The　air　was　full　of　dancing　machines　and　streamers　of
contrails；　exhaust　and　smoke。　Too　many　objects　to　track。　He　had　to　stay　focused。　Concentrate　on　the
bats。　Not　even　all　the　bats　he　could　see。　Just　the　ones　his　speed　and　angle　had　a　chance　of
intersecting。
Two　to　port；　going　the　other　way。　No　point　even　thinking　about　it。　Another；　bright　red；　climbing
hard。　He　wouldn’t　catch　it。　There　at　his　ten…　no。　A　Lightning；　sun　glinting　off　its　aluminoid　skin　as
it　turned。　Keep　jinking；　keep　moving；　keep　twisting；　keep　dancing。　Fly　straight　for　more　than　five
seconds　and　you　might　as　well　paint　a　target　on　your　arse　cheeks。
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Hexan；　his　aged　instructor　back　at　the　scholam。　His　mantra；　his　words。　Marquall　could　hear　the
old　bastard　saying　them。
A　bat　there。　He　rolled　over　on　it。　No　good。　It　was　breaking　and　turning　the　other　way。　Damn　it。
Another…　but　Clovin　was　on　it；　the　nose　of　Umbra　Seven　lighting　up　with　las　discharge。　A　hit？　Too
late　to　see。　Marquall　had　gone　over；　past；　round　again。　That　put　him　low　under　one　of　the　transports。
The　damn　thing’s　turrets　opened　up　at　him；　chasing　his　tail　with　yellow　tracer。
“Friendly！　Friendly！　Friendly！”　he　yelled　into　the　vox；　knowing　they　probably　didn’t　care。
Terrified　beyond　measure　by　now；　the　gunners　were　blazing　away　at　anything　in　the　sky。
He　banked　around　again　and　a　crimson　bat　went　across　his　nose。　Without　even　thinking；　he
clenched　his　thumb　and　felt　The　Smear　shudder　as　its　guns　lit　off。　Had　he　hit　it？　Chances　were　low。
He　didn’t　care。　There　was　another。　He　was　in　the　game　now。
Jagdea　couldn’t　see　Marquall。　She　couldn’t　worry　about　that　now。　This　wasn’t　the　place　for
nurse…maiding。　They　were　desperately　outnumbered；　by　machines　every　bit　as　fast　and　heavyweight
as　the　Thunderbolts。　Her　initial　stooping　dive　and　turn…out　had　brought　her　clean　in　on　a　bat；　but　it
had　the　edge　on　power　because　she　was　turning；　and　zipped　out　of　her　target　field　before　she　could
fire。
She　kicked　the　rudder　round　and　rolled　to　port；　and　saw　a　scarlet　Razor　streak　by　underneath　her。
It　was　gunning　for　one　of　the　Lightnings；　stuck　to　its　six。　The　Navy　plane　was　doing　everything　it
could；　but　it　wouldn’t　shake　off。
Jagdea　almost　had　to　loop　to　line　up。　The　angle　of　deflection　was　poor；　so　she　saved　her　shots；
and　banked　around　again　until　she　came　up　right　on　the　Razor’s　tail。
It　must　have　seen　her　there；　because　it　broke　off　furiously。　But　her　instinct　was　as　keen　as　ever。
Jagdea　had　a　natural　talent　for　anticipation。　A　simple　matter　of　logic；　that’s　how　she　saw　it。　She
regularly　guessed　what　a　hostile　was　going　to　do　by　imagining　what　she’d　do　in　its　place。　Blansher
once　remarked　that　if　it　was　such　a　simple　trick；　why　could　no　one　else　in　the　wing　do　it　quite　so
well？　As　the　Razor　pulled　off；　she　was　pulling　off　too；　at　exactly　the　same　angle。　Two　bursts。　Four
las…rounds。　All　four　went　straight　up　the　Razor’s　intakes　and　it　blew　apart　in　a　sizzling　cloud　of
debris。
Small　parts　of　the　wreckage　clattered　off　her　upper　hull　as　she　came　through　the　flame…cone。
Immediately；　she　had　a　lock　tone。　Something　on　top　of　her。　Tracers　sailed　by；　pink　and　bright。　She
rolled；　with　a　touch　of　viff　from　the　vectors；　and　let　the　bat　go　wide。
Another　one。　No；　two。　One　red；　one　mauve；　sweeping　in　towards　the　transpo