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“G’way！”
“Marquall；　I’ve　stuck　my　neck　out　for　you。　My　whole　neck。　I　came　looking　for　you　rather　than
report　you　were　overdue。　So　far；　it’s　off　the　record。”　She　looked　round　at　Kaminsky。　“It　is　off　the
record；　isn’t　it？”
Kaminsky　shrugged。　“Sure。”
She　shook　Marquall。　“See　what　I　do　for　you？　It’s　off　the　record。　I　didn’t　report　you　to　the
Commissariat。　I　could　lose　command　for　letting　you　run　off　like　this。　FTR。　Failed　To　Return。　You’re
four　hours　late　back　at　billet。　The　commissars　would　shoot　you　for　this。　Shoot　me；　too。　Don’t　mess
me　up；　Marquall。　Don’t　you　dare　earn　the　Phantine　a　rep　for　screw…ups　and　disobedience。　We’re
running　with　the　frigging　Navy　now！　Get　up；　Marquall！　Don’t　you　disgrace　me！　I　need　you！”
He　looked　at　her；　blinking　to　focus。　“Y’don’　need　me…”
“I　lost　a　pilot　yesterday。　I’ll　be　damned　if　I　lose　two！”
She　pulled　his　arm；　and　he　struggled　back。　Kaminsky　winced　as　the　boy　fell　off　his　seat。　He
spilled　Commander　Jagdea　over　with　him　as　he　went；　and　a　glass　broke。
“That’s　enough！”　the　barman　cried。　The　Ingeburgan　thug　was　closing　in。
“It’s　okay；”　Kaminsky　said；　holding　up　his　hand。　He　helped　Jagdea　up　and　pushed　her　aside。
Then　he　stood　over　the　boy。
“Call　yourself　a　flier？”　he　said。
48
“What？”　Marquall　gurgled。
“What　are　you　doing？”　Jagdea　began。
“Don’t　worry；”　Kaminsky　told　her。　“Let　me　speak　to　the　lad。　I　don’t　want　any　trouble。”
He　looked　down　at　the　boy　again。
“You’re　a　pilot？　You　get　to　fly？　I　tell　you　what…　you’re　a　piece　of　crap。”
“What？”
“A。　Piece。　Of。　Crap。　You　disgust　me。　Your　mamzel　there　has　gone　out　on　a　line　to　pull　your　arse
in；　and　this　is　what　you　do？　Can　you　fly？　Can　you　fly？”
“Y…yes…”
“Can　you　fly？”
“Yes！”
“Why　don’t　you　then？”
“I…　I　don’t　know…”
Kaminsky　reached　under　his　coat　and　pulled　out　his　service　auto。　He　dropped　it　onto　the　boy’s
belly。　The　falling　weight　winded　him。
“Just　use　it。”
“What？”
“Use　it。　Use　it　now。”
“What？”
“Use　the　frigging　gun；　you　waste　of　space。　Put　a　shot　through　your　stupid　brain。　It’d　be　quicker
than　drinking　yourself　to　death。　Do　us　all　a　favour。”
Marquall　stared　at　the　gun　on　his　belly　as　if　it　was　a　venomous　arachnid。
“What　are　you　waiting　for？　Eh？　You　get　to　fly；　you　bastard！　You　get　to　fly！　Why　would　you　run
away　from　that？　I　used　to　fly　too！　But　I　got　crisped！　See　this？　My　face？　My　hand？　They　say　I　can
never　fly　again！　I’m　not　airworthy！　I’d　give　anything　to　be　you！　Anything！　So　pick　up　that　frigging
gun　and　stop　me　envying　your　stupid　little　life！”
“Shit…”　said　Marquall。　“You　can’t　say　that　to　me…”
“No；　he　can’t；”　said　Jagdea；　kneeling　beside　him。　“But　it　seems　he　just　did。　Now　are　we　going
home　or　am　I　going　to　leave　you　with　him？”
“Home；”　agreed　Marquall；　closing　his　eyes。
Jagdea　tossed　the　service　pistol　back　to　Kaminsky。　He　caught　it。　“Yours；　I　believe。”　Then　she
hauled　Marquall　up　on　her　shoulder　and　carried　him　out　of　the　bar。
She　was　sitting　with　him　in　the　back　space　of　the　truck　when　Kaminsky　came　out。　He　looked　at
her。
“Drive；　please；”　she　said　firmly。
Kaminsky　got　up　into　the　cab。　Alone　again；　he　started　the　engine。
South　of　the　Makanites；　08。30
Thirty　thousand　metres；　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky；　just　twenty…four　silver　giants　leaving　white　lines　of
vapour　across　the　blue。
Viltry　felt　much　more　at　ease　on　this　early　run；　Halo　Flight’s　second　sortie　of　the　tour。　He
wondered　if　it　was　strength　of　numbers：　Halo　was　running　in　formation　with　Marauders　of　2212th
Navy；　and　they　had　a　wing　of　Thunderbolts　five　thousand　metres　above　them；　flying　top　cover。
Formation　safety。
Or　maybe　it　was　the　soothing　effects　of　a　long　afternoon　spent　gazing　at　the　sea。
Whatever；　he　was　more　relaxed。　Greta　felt　good　and　responsive。　Sunlight　filled　the　cabin　with　a
golden　glaze；　and　the　world　seemed　almost　silent。　At　this　altitude；　the　engines　were　a　muffled　throb。
49
The　loudest　sounds　were　the　hiss　of　the　air…mix　and　the　pump　of　his　mask。　He　imagined　this　serenity
was　what　it　was　like　to　be　deep　under　the　sea。
Lacombe　passed　a　sheaf　of　plastek…sheathed　charts　over　to　him。　He　took　another　look　at　the
recon　data。　As　of　17。00　hours　the　day　before；　it　had　been　confirmed　（thanks；　he　was　proud　to　note；　to
the　action　of　a　Phantine　wing—Jagdea’s　mob；　bless　them）　that　the　enemy　had　secured　air…range
beyond　the　mountain　limits。　That　meant　almost　certainly　they　had　established　forward　air　bases　in
the　Interior　Desert；　maybe　even　mobile　land…carriers；　far　further　north　than　had　been　previously
estimated　by　Operations。　Aerial　recon　had　spotted　a　few　probable　heat…sources　overnight；　and　now
their　formation—call　sign　Hightail—and　nine　other　formations　like　them　were　aloft　on　interdiction
missions。　If　the　enemy　had　air　bases　in　the　northern　desert；　they　had　to　be　hit　now　and　taken　out；　or
the　show　would　be　over　before　it　began。
Hightail　had　already　spotted　half　a　dozen　possibles　during　their　flying　time；　but　all　had　turned
out　to　be　masses　of　Imperial　ground　forces　labouring　north。
From　this　great　height；　Viltry　enjoyed　an　awesome　panorama　of　the　desert；　intractable　and　vast。
It　was　ragged　terrain；　resembling　worn　sandpaper。　Over　to　the　west；　hundreds　of　kilometres　away；
he　could　make　out　the　margins　of　the　Cicatrice；　a　huge　rift　of　scarred　land　that　ancient　geology　had
gouged　out　across　the　continent；　probably　around　the　same　time　it　had　lifted　the　Makanites　to
overlook　it。　Flying　in　that　region　was　said　to　be　tough；　especially　at　lower　levels。　The　scar…valleys
caused　savage　and　unpredictable　wind　shears　and　crosscurrents。
According　to　the　recon　brief；　they　were　now　just　fifty　kilometres　short　of　one　of　the　most　likely
target　areas；　a　high…density　heat　and　magnetics　return　from　a　dune　sea　region　called　the　Dish　of
Sand。
There　was　a　Navy　Marauder—Hightail　One—flying　about　twenty　kilometres　ahead　of　them。
Carrying　zero　payload　to　remain　svelte　and　fleet；　its　auspex　boosted　and　amped；　Hightail　One　was
their　pathfinder。
Viltry　waited　patiently　for　the　go　or　no。　He　had　a　good　feeling　about　this　one。
Then　he　saw　the　bats。
It　was　the　strangest　thing。　It　was　like　no　one　else　had　seen　them。　No　alarm　had　come　up；　no
squawk。　There　were　nine　of　them；　crimson　blades；　knifing　in　out　of　the　east　across　the　formation’s
port　flank。
“Enemy！　Enemy！　Nine　o’clock　and　inbound！”　Viltry　yelled。　He　heard　the　main　turret　above　and
behind　him　whirring　as　the　servos　spun　it。　The　vox　was　suddenly　bursting　with　voices。　Greta　shook
gently　as；　up　in　the　turret；　Gaize　began　firing　the　twin　heavy　bolters。　Viltry　saw　tracer　fire　stitch　out
and　fall　to　his　left。　The　bats—Hell　Razors—smashed　in　through　the　belly　of　the　formation；　weapon
mounts　flashing　as　they　came。　Where　the　hell　was　top　cover？
“Vox　discipline！　Vox　discipline！”　Viltry　yelled；　trying　to　still　the　agitated　shouting　of　his　crew。
“Visual　scanning。　Conserve　fire。　We’re　in　a　formation；　so　no　wild　firing。　Pick　targets。　Track　them。”
Hightail　was　flying　in　overlapping　diamond　formations。　Effectively；　that　meant　each　machine
had　the　protection　of　its　neighbours；　and　each　diamond　the　protection　of　the　diamond　or　diamonds
adjoining　it；　plus　top　cover　to　fill　in　as　needed。　So　deployed；　and　carrying　such　heavy　turret
weapons；　the　Marauders　effectively　formed　a　flying　fortification　that　should；　technically；　be
impossible　to　breach。
But　the　Hell　Razors　had　gone　under　them　once；　and　two　of　the　Navy　machines　were　reporting
hits　taken。　The　lead　Navy　Marauder；　called　Holy　Terra；　had　formation　command。　Viltry　could　hear
the　Terra’s　commander；　a　man　called　Egsor；　barking　orders　to　the　flight　to　maintain　pattern。
Viltry　was　checking　to　his　starboard。　The　bats　had　gone　that　way；　and　logic　said　that　was　where
they’d　come　back　in　from。　He　jumped　in　his　harness　as　two　Thunderbolts　power　dived　past　his
starboard　wingtip；　burning　around　west。　Greta　rocked　in　their　slip　wake。
“Where　the　hell　were　you；　top　cover？”　he　voxed。
“No　chatter！”　he　heard　Egsor　snarl　back。
50
“Six！　Six！　Six　o’clock！”　It　was　Orsone　in　the　tail；　and　his　yells　were　echoed　by　the　tail　gunners
of　all　the　other　machines。　The　bats　had　swept　out　wide　and　come　in　from　the　rear　for