Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第3部分

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The　belly…dropping　jink　as　they　cleared　the　ramp　end　and　lifted　up　into　the　blue；　raw　and　throbbing。
The　cold　smell　of　the　cockpit。　The　reek　of　rubber　and　steel；　promethium；　nitrous；　fyceline。　The　feel
of　being　aloft；　alive…
God…Emperor；　how　he　missed　it。
At　the　gate；　beside　the　staked　revets　and　the　heavy　blast…fences；　he　pulled　over　to　let　a　munitions
convoy　roll　in。　He　glanced　up　into　the　driving　mirror　and；　for　a　moment；　saw　himself。
More　than　anything；　more　than　even　the　airfield　full　of　prepping　warplanes；　the　sight　of　himself
reminded　August　Kaminsky　that　his　cherished　game　was　only　pretend。
There　was；　inescapably；　a　war　on。
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Theda　Old　Town；　07。09
He　couldn’t　sleep。　It　was　anticipation　mostly；　the　prospect　of　a　new　war　to　survive；　but　his　body
clock　was　still　running　on　shipboard　time；　and　to　him　it　was　late　afternoon。
Just　before　six　by　the　chronograph　on　his　night　stand；　he　gave　up　on　his　bed　and　got　up。　It　was
cold　and　not　yet　light。　In　the　adjacent　rooms；　the　other　men　of　G　for　Greta　were　sleeping。　He　could
hear　snoring；　particularly　the　volcanic　rumble　of　Bombardier　Judd。　The　Munitorum　had　issued　them
billets　in　a　once…handsome　pension　on　Kazergat　Canal；　and　they’d　piled　in　late　the　previous
afternoon；　leaving　their　packs　in　a　heap　in　the　hallway；　eagerly　laying　claim　to　rooms。　The　younger
men　had　broken　open　liquor　and　got　down　to　the　business　of　getting　drunk　so　they　could　better　sleep
off　voyage…lag。　He’d　had　a　glass　or　two；　but　the　cheap　escape　held　little　attraction。
He　and　the　other　flight　officers　had　swung　the　best　rooms。　He’d　had　to　order　a　disappointed
Orsone　out　to　make　way　for　him。　“Find　somewhere　else；”　he’d　told　the　young　tail…gunner。　But　the
room　wasn’t　much　of　a　trophy。　The　carpet　had　long　gone　and　the　plaster　was　crumbling。　Pitchwashed
sheets　were　nailed　over　the　windows　in　place　of　curtains。　Damp　patches　blotched　the　ceiling
like　sores。　There　was　a　smell　of　fatigue　and　faded　grandeur。　That’s　what　years　of　warfare　did　to　a
place。　They　certainly　did　the　same　to　a　man；　after　all。
The　old　woman　who　ran　the　pension　had　told　him　that　there　would　be　no　hot　water　until　after
eight；　and　he　hadn’t　come　that　many　parsecs　to　start　a　tour　by　standing　under　a　piss…cold　shower。
He’d　got　dressed　in　the　half…light—boots；　breeches；　fleece…vest—and　started　to　pull　on　his　flight
coat。　But　his　fingers　had　then　encountered　the　insignia　seent；　the
captain’s　bars；　the　squadron　badge；　the　name…strip　that　read　“Viltry；　Oskar”。　He　had　put　it　aside　and
opted　instead　for　a　more　anonymous　tan　leather　coat。
The　landing　was　dark。　On　the　floor　above；　the　crewmen　of　Hello　Hellstorm　were　slumbering；
with　the　crews　of　Throne　of　Terror　and　Widowmaker　on　the　floor　above　that。　The　retinues　of　K　for
Killshot　and　Get　Them　All　Back　were　billeted　on　the　ground　floor。　The　other　six　crews　of　XXI　Wing
“Halo　Flight”；　Imperial　（Phantine）　Air　Force　were　tucked　up　in　another　pension　down　the　street。
Viltry　activated　a　glow…globe。　The　light　was　dim；　but　enough　to　light　his　way　down　the　creaking
staircase。　In　the　hall；　there　were　ancient　books　stacked　on　the　mantel　of　the　ornate　but　flaking
fireplace；　but　those　that　he　touched　in　the　hope　of　finding　an　hour　or　two’s　distraction　fell　into　dust。
He　let　himself　out　onto　the　street。　It　was　chilly　and　quiet；　except　for　the　gurgle　of　the　canal。　A
van　rumbled　by　on　the　far　side　of　the　canal；　its　headlights　cowled　as　per　blackout　procedures。　He
walked　a　few　paces；　noticing　the　stumps；　regularly　spaced；　where　iron　lamp　stands　had　been
removed　from　the　boulevard　for　the　war　effort。　He　tried　to　imagine　the　place　in　peacetime。　Elegant；
glass…hooded　lamps；　purring　electric　cruisers　on　the　grand　canal；　prosperous　Imperial　citizens　going
about　their　business；　stopping　to　greet　and　talk；　dining　at　terrace　taverns　now　long　boarded…up。
There　would　have　been　students　too。　The　briefing　documents　said　that　Theda　was　a　scholam　town。
In　truth；　he　realised；　he　knew　precious　little　about　Enothis。　Precious　little　apart　from　three　things：
it　was　an　old；　proud　Imperial　world；　it　was　strategically　vital　to　this　zone　of　the　Sabbat　Worlds；　and
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