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sharp　end　of　his　invasion；　and　stall　its　malign　force　at　the　southern　coast。”
“And　if　we　can’t？”　said　Zemmic。
“Then　we　will　have　failed。　And　Enothis　will　fall。　Any　other　bloody　silly　questions？”
The　briefing　broke　up　and　everyone　resumed　work。
Blansher　joined　Jagdea。
“Tall　order。　You　think　we　can　do　it？”
“We　can　do　what　we　do；　Mil；”　she　replied。　“After　that；　it’s　down　to　the　almighty　God…Emperor
and　the　currents　of　fate　itself。”
“But　realistically？”　Blansher　had　a　habit　of　rubbing　the　scar　tissue　that　bisected　his　lips　and　chin
when　he　was　anxious。　He　was　doing　it　now。
“Realistically？　How’s　this　for　realistic？　It　took　them　two　weeks　to　smash　us　out　of　the　south。
How　long　do　you　think　the　remainder　of　our　broken；　under…strength；　scattered　wings　can　hold　the
sea　zone？”
“Throne！”　he　said。　“But—”
Jagdea　cut　him　off。　“Or　try　this　for　realistic　instead。　The　sea　is　a　real　buffer　that　will　slow　the
enemy　more　than　the　desert　or　the　Peninsula　ever　did。　We　are　the　best　pilots　in　the　Imperium…　I
don’t　just　mean　the　Phantine；　I　mean　the　Navy　boys　too。　We　fly　to　our　limits　for　another　week；　keep
knocking　the　bastards　back；　and　maybe　we　have　a　chance。　Once　they　start　hitting　the　northern　coast；
it’s　checkmate；　but　they’ve　got　to　get　past　us　first。　Regular　combat　patrols。　Snap　calls。　Up　and　into
them。　We　could　fend　them　off。　Unless…”
“Unless　what；　Bree？”
“Unless　they　send　everything　they　have　at　us　at　once。”　Blansher　sighed。　“That’s　not　a　scenario　I
want　to　think　about。”
An　odd　look　abruptly　crossed　Jagdea’s　face。　She　turned。　“It　just　occurred　to　me。　What　the　hell
am　I　going　to　fly？”
“We’ll　find　you　something；”　Blansher　promised。
He　walked　her　over　to　one　of　the　freight　elevators　and　dropped　them　down　into　the　storage
chamber　under　number　three　hangar。　Teams　of　fitters　were　at　work　down　here　too。　In　the　glowglobe
half…light；　welding　sparks　showered　up；　bright　and　thick；　and　panel…guns　whined　and
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thumped。　The　cradle　bays　down　in　the　storage　chamber　were　circled　around　a　central　elevator
platform　that　lifted　planes　up　onto　the　main　deck。
Serial　Zero…Two　sat　on　one　of　the　repair　cradles。
“Came　in　on　one　of　the　heavy　transports；”　said　Blansher。　“The　techs　say　she’s　fit　to　fly。”
“Great　throne　of　gold！”　Jagdea　exclaimed。　“I　never　thought　I’d　see　her　again。　I　expected　to　make
do　with　a　spare　from　the　depot。”
“Praise　be　the　God…Emperor　and　the　diligence　of　his　Munitorum。　Despite　the　urgency；　they　got　a
hell　of　a　lot　of　equipment　out　of　Theda　at　the　end　there。”
“Speaking　of　spares；”　Jagdea　said；　raising　her　voice　to　be　heard　over　a　blast　of　riveting；　“what
are　those？”
Alongside　Zero…Two；　four　other　Thunderbolts　sat　on　cradles。
“Oh；　they　shouldn’t　be　here。　The　transports　brought　in　a　lot　of　unassigned　machines。　Spares。　Or
leftovers　from　units　that　don’t　exist　any　more。　That　sort　of　thing。　They　gave　us　four　of　them　because
Umbra　was　listed　as　a　twelve　element　wing。　I　explained　to　the　Munitorum　clerk　we　only　had　eight
pilots；　and　he　just　got　concerned　I　was　upsetting　his　book　keeping。”
Jagdea　walked　round　the　machines。　One　was　an　ex…Raptor　bird；　in　a　scratched　black　livery。
Another　was　from　a　unit　that　favoured　pale　tan　with　dazzle　patterns。　The　other　two　were　bare…metal
silver；　recently　delivered　replacements　that　had　yet　to　be　assigned。
“Anyway；　I’ve　got　the　depot　working　on　it；”　Blansher　said。　“I　don’t　want　them　wasted。　And　I’m
sure　we’re　not　the　only　wing　to　have　been　given　machines　we　can’t　use。　They’ll　get　shipped　out　in
the　next　few　days　to　units　that　can　use　them。”
“No；”　said　Jagdea　firmly。
“What？”　Blansher　asked。
She　looked　at　him。　“Mil；　the　Imperium　needs　to　get　everything　it’s　got　aloft　now；　not　in　the　next
few　days。　We’ve　got　planes　without　pilots。　Good　for　us！　I’ll　bet　the　evac　barges　brought　in　dozens　of
decent　pilots　without　machines。　Let’s　find　them！　Let’s　use　them　now！”
“Well；　I　guess…”
“It’s　called　pragmatism；”　she　said。　“Inform　the　clerks　that　these　planes　are　assigned　to　Umbra。
Cancel　the　transfer。”
“Are　you　sure？”
“Yes；　I’m　sure。”　She　turned　and　called　out。　“Mister　Hemmen？”
The　fitter　ran　across　to　her。　“Mamzel？”
“Make　these　planes　airworthy　and　dress　them　in　Umbra　paint　schemes。”
“Yes；　mamzel。　Directly。”
“Soon　as　I　can；”　she　said　to　Blansher；　“I　intend　to　have　Umbra　up　to　full　strength。　I’m　going　to
find　us　some　willing　volunteers。”
Lucerna　AB；　23。12
The　fan　assemblies　were　still　venting　thick　exhaust　fumes　out　of　the　hangar。　Jagdea　took　off　her
helmet　and　got　down　from　Zero…Two。
She　glanced　at　the　three　cannon…shell　holes　in　the　tail　plating。　“Patch　that；　please；”　she　said　to
her　head　fitter。　“Rearm　and　refuel。”
“Yes；　commander。”
She　walked　up　the　dispersal　tunnel　and　entered　the　ready　room；　throwing　her　helmet；　mask　and
gloves　onto　the　couch。　The　man　who　had　been　sitting　in　one　of　the　armchairs　for　some　time　stood　up
swiftly。
“At　ease；”　she　said。　“Thanks　for　coming。　You’ll　have　to　forgive　my　temper。　A　patrol　turned　into
a　full…on　brawl。　But　we　stung　two　for　no　losses；　thanks　be。”
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She　went　over　to　the　cradenza　and　poured　herself　a　stiff　amasec。　“I　told　my　crews　this　was　a　‘no
drinking’　night；　so　be　good　and　don’t　let　on。”
The　man　nodded。
“Commander；　I　was　wondering　why　you　sent　for　me？”　said　August　Kaminsky。
Jagdea　slid　open　a　filing　cabinet　drawer　and　pulled　out　a　bulging　file　and　some　data…slates。
“A　bit　of　driving；　Mr　Kaminsky。　That’s　what　you　told　me　you　were　good　for　these　days。　A　bit　of
driving　for　the　Munitorum。”
“Yes；　commander。”
“Well；　I’d　like　you　to　do　a　bit　of　driving　for　me。　There’s　an　I…XXI　Thunderbolt　downstairs；　and
I’d　like　to　have　your　name　stencilled　under　the　cockpit。”
Kaminsky　gazed　at　her。　His　eyes　shone　with　what　seemed　like　anger。　The　skin　of　his
unblemished　cheek　flushed　almost　as　pink　as　the　mass　of　bums　on　the　other　side。
“Is　that　a　joke；　commander？　If　it　is；　I　think　it’s　in　pretty　poor　taste。　I　can’t　fly　Thunderbolts。　I
can’t　fly；　period。”
“I　beg　to　differ。　I　was　in　that　Cyclone　with　you。　That　was　instinct；　Kaminsky。　Pure　instinct。　I’ve
never　seen　finer。”
“But；　commander…”
“I’m　offering　you　a　place　in　my　wing；　Mr　Kaminsky。　Or　should　I　say　“Major’？　I　called　up　your
log　records。　Sixteen　years；　wing　leader　grade；　a　career　tally　of　seventeen　confirmed　kills。　This　is
your　chance　to　get　back　in　the　game。　To　fly　and　fight　for　your　world。　Are　you　going　to　refuse　me？”
Kaminsky　raised　his　stiff；　plastek　hand。　“Commander；　I　was　rated　not　airworthy　because　of　this；
not　because　I　was　unwilling　to　fight。　The　Commonwealth　just　hasn’t　got　the　augmetic　resources　to
fix　up　pilots　like　me。　With　this　hand；　I　can’t　control　throttle；　stick　and　guns。　Shit；　you　know　that；
Jagdea。”
Jagdea　nodded。　“Yes；　that’s　a　problem。　The　Navy　could　resource　you　a　proper　augmetic　implant；
but　we　don’t　have　much　time。　Certainly　not　enough　time　for　you　to　undergo　implantation　surgery。
So　I　talked　to　my　fitters。　They’re　an　ingenious　lot；　fitters。　One　suggested　mounting　the　trigger
assembly　on　the　top　of　the　throttle　lever；　but　we　all　thought　that　might　get　in　the　way。　Then　Mr
Racklae　had　a　notion。　He’s　going　to　wire　up　the　weapons　systems　to　a　voice　activator。　It’ll　take　a
little　getting　used　to；　I　realise；　but　you’ve　got　some　serious　familiarisation　to　do　anyway。　Bottom
line；　Kaminsky；　your　guns　can　be　voice　controlled。　Your　impairment　need　not　bar　your　from　combat
service。”
Kaminsky　continued　to　stare　at　her。　“I—”　he　began。
“Think　it　over；　major。　If　you　decide　to　pass；　I　have　other　candidates　to　consider。　But　you　were
my　first　choice。”
There　was　a　knock　on　the　door。
“Yes？”
Marquall　looked　in。　“Commander？　Do　you　have　a　minute？”
“Be　right　there；”　she　said。　She　glanced　back　at　Kaminsky。　“Help　yourself　to　a　drink　if　you　like。
I’ll　be　back　in　a　while。”
She　left　Kaminsky　in　the　ready　room　and　went　outside。　Marquall　peered　back　through　the
doorway　with　a　frown。　“What’s　he　doing　here；　commander？”　he　whispered；　dubiously。
“He’s　having　a　long；　hard　think；　Marquall。　What　did　you　need？”
“A　guy’s　just　turned　up　in　the　hangar。　Says　he　knows　you。”
“Hel