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old；　foremost　rule：　don’t　stay　on　a　target。
She　came　around　again　and　made　a　shallow　climb　that　slid　her　between　two　of　the　racing
Cyclones。　Her　auspex　began　bleating。　Something　had　a　lock　on　her。　She　rolled；　craning　her　head
back　over　her　left　shoulder；　then　her　right。　Where　the　hell　was　it？　Las…shots　scorched　past　her　port
side　and　her　machine　bucked　hard。　There　were　suddenly　raking　scorch　marks　on　her　port　wing。　She
rolled　and　turned　again。　Still　the　lock　held。　More　shots；　stitching　past　on　her　right　now。　She　dipped
her　wing　and　banked　out；　catching　her　speed　and　opening　the　reactor　nozzles　so　she　almost　turned
end　on　end。
The　Locust　went　right　by　her；　overshooting。　She　saw　the　bone…white　kill　marks　under　its　canopy
sill。
Three　thousand　metres　above　her；　Marquall　began　his　turn；　standing　on　his　port　wing；　gazing
down　at　the　spiralling　machines　through　the　cloud　cover　below。　Van　Tull　and　Espere　matched　his
turn。
40
“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？”
41
“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。
42
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　shea