Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第21部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


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。
59
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。
60
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。
61
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　banke