Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第3部分

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he；　and　thousands　of　other　aviators　like　him；　had　been　drafted　here　from　off…world　at　short　notice　to
save　it　from　extinction。
He　noticed　passers…by　suddenly—other　pedestrians　out　in　the　early　light；　dressed　in　dark　clothes；
all　hurrying　in　the　same　direction。　He　heard　the　chime　of　a　chapel　bell　ringing　out　seven　of　the
clock；　calling　them　to　worship。　Viltry　followed　them；　crossing　a　bridge　over　the　canal；　hanging
back。
By　the　time　he　reached　the　Ministorum　chapel　on　the　far　bank　side；　the　dawn　service　had　already
begun。　He　stood　for　a　moment　outside；　listening　to　the　plainsong　chants。　Above　him；　in　the　cold；
grey　light；　the　bas…relief　facade　showed　the　figure　of　the　God…Emperor　gazing　down　on　all　mankind。
Viltry　felt　ashamed。　He　bowed　his　head。　When；　eight　years　earlier；　he　had　sworn　to　give　his　life
as　a　warrior　in　the　service　of　the　God…Emperor；　he　hadn’t　realised　how　damn　hard　it　would　be。　He’d
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always　wanted　to　be　an　aviator；　of　course。　Phantine’s　unusual　topography　bred　that　instinct　into　all
its　sons　and　daughters。　But　the　cost　had　been　great。　Two　years　before；　during　the　final　onslaught　to
liberate　his　home　world　from　the　toxic　clutches　of　the　Archenemy；　fighting　alongside　the　Imperial
Crusade　forces　of　Warmaster　Macaroth；　he　had　almost　died　twice。　Once　as　wind　waste　over　the
Scald；　then　as　a　prisoner　of　the　vile　warlord　Sagittar　Slaith　at　Ouranberg。
In　the　two　years　since　then；　Viltry　had　been　unable　to　shrug　off　the　idea　that　he　should　be　dead
already。　He　was　living　on　borrowed　time。　His　tutor　at　the　scholam　had　drummed　into　him　the
concept　of　Fate’s　wheel。　He’d　said　that　it　spun　at　the　Emperor’s　right　hand。　It　spun　for　balance；　for
symmetry。　What　was　given　would　be　taken；　what　was　loaned　would　be　paid　back。　A　life　saved　was
only　a　life　spared。
His　had　been　saved　twice　over。　There　was　a　reckoning　to　be　had。　And　here　he　was；　on　another
world；　charged　with　the　duty　of　fighting　to　save　it。　The　reckoning　would　be　here；　he　was　sure　of　it。
Fate’s　wheel　would　turn。　He　had　been　spared　twice　so　he　could　live　long　enough　to　see　his　home
world　saved。　Now　he　was　fighting　to　save　another　man’s　home　world。　This；　surely；　would　be　where
the　accounts　got　squared。
The　crew　of　G　for　Greta　had　seen　this　fatality　in　his　every　action；　he　was　sure　of　that。　They
knew　they　were　flying　on　a　doomed　bird。　Doomed　by　him；　cursed　by　him。　He’d　lost　one　crew　over
the　Scald；　and　he　should　have　gone　with　them。　Now　Fate’s　wheel　would　bring　another　crew　down
with　him　in　its　efforts　to　even　the　tally。
He’d　asked　for　a　transfer；　been　refused；　asked　for　a　non…operational　posting；　had　that　turned　over
as　well。　“You’re　a　bloody　fine　flight　officer；　Viltry；”　Ornoff　had　told　him。　“Get　rid　of　this　fatalistic
nonsense。　We　need　every　man…bastard　with　airtime　and　combat　experience　we　can　get。　Enothis　will
be　tough　as　nails。　Our　ground　forces　are　in　hard　retreat　from　Sek’s　legions。　It’ll　come　down　to　a
bloody　air　war；　mark　my　words。　Request　denied。　Your　Navy　transport　leaves　orbit　tomorrow　at
06。00。”
Viltry　looked　up　at　the　graven　image　of　the　God…Emperor；　hard…shadowed　in　the　sluggishly
rising　sun。　It　looked　disapproving；　scowling　at　his　timid　soul；　fully　aware　of　the　cowardice　in　his
heart。
“I’m　sorry；”　he　said；　out　loud。
A　woman　in　a　long　black　coat；　coming　late　to　the　service；　looked　round　at　him。　He　shrugged；
bashful；　and　held　the　chapel　door　open　for　her。
Light；　and　a　chorus　of　triumph　dedicated　to　the　Golden　Throne　of　Earth；　washed　out　on　them
both。　She　hurried　in。
He　followed　her；　and　closed　the　heavy　door　behind　him。
Over　the　Makanites；　07。11
This　one　was　good。　Daring。　Young；　most　likely；　desperate　to　live。　Weren’t　they　all？
The　dive　was　magnificent；　foolhardy。　Flight　Warrior　Khrel　Kas　Obarkon；　chieftain　of　the　fifth
echelon；　which　was　of　the　Anarch；　and　so　sworn　to　he　that　is　Sek；　decided　he　would　like　more　of
this　boy’s　kind　in　his　echelon　come　the　showdown。　The　boy　flew；　as　they　say；　by　the　claws。　Such　a
scream　dive。　Obarkon　didn’t　know　the　runty　little　enemy　pulsejets　could　achieve　that。
It　seemed　almost　a　waste　to　slay　him。
Wound　tight　in　his　grav…armour；　auto…pumps　and　cardio…centrifuges　compensating　his
circulation；　Obarkon　committed　his　Hell　Razor　steeper　still；　adjusting　the　trim；　slicing　down　through
the　air　like　a　knife　at　point　eight　of　mach。　His　cockpit　was　dark　save　for　the　winking　lights　of　his
instruments；　which　reflected　off　the　black；　patent…leather　gauntlets　encasing　his　hands。　The　stooping
Wolfcub　was　a　bright　orange　pip　on　his　auspex　display。
How　was　it　surviving？　Pilot　skill　or　luck？　The　young　had　little　of　the　former　and；　sometimes；
barrels　of　the　latter。　The　dive　was　testing　the　enemy　plane　right　to　the　limits　of　its　airframe。　A　single
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degree　deeper　and　the　descent　would　strip　the　wings　away　at　the　cabane　or　blow　out　the　inductive
motor。
Behind　the　matt…black　glass　visor　of　his　full…head　helmet；　Obarkon　smiled。　His　face；　so　seldom
seen；　was　a　grizzled　tissue　of　fibre　and　poly…weave　reinforcements。　His　eyes　were　augmetics；　linked
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
aft