Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第4部分

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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
after　it。
Only　the　woman　paused。　She　had　cold；　searching　eyes　and　a　slim　jaw　that　seemed　to　be　set
permanently　in　a　gritted　clench。　Her　black　hair　was　cut　unflatteringly　short。
“Transport　to　Theda　MAB　South？”　she　asked　Kaminsky。　She　spoke　with　an　offworld　accent　that
sounded　rather　odd　and　nasal　to　him。
“Yes；　mamzel。　To　the　dispersal　station。”
“That’s　‘commander’；”　she　corrected；　hauling　her　lithe　figure　up　into　the　transport。　“Carry　on。”
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Kaminsky　waited　for　the　last　of　them　to　climb　aboard；　then　shut　the　gate。　He　limped　back　round
to　the　cab　and　started　the　engine。
Phantine。　That’s　what　it　had　said　on　the　woman’s　silver　shoulder　badge。　Phantine　XX；　embossed
on　a　scroll　backed　by　a　double…headed　eagle　that　clutched　lightning　bolts　in　its　talons。
Kaminsky　had　been　a　student　of　aviation　history　since　childhood　and；　though　he’d　heard　of　a
world　called　Phantine；　he　had　no　idea　why　a　flight　wing　should　bear　the　name。
He　drove　them　through　Vilberg　borough　and　turned　south　towards　the　base。　On　Scholastae
Street；　a　pair　of　Commonwealth　Cyclones　went　over　at　about　five　hundred　metres；　turning　north　and
west。　Kaminsky　looked　up　to　watch　them　pass。
In　the　driving　mirror；　he　saw　the　fliers　in　the　back　do　the　same。
Theda　Old　Town；　07。35
The　service　had　finished；　and　the　faithful　were　filing　out；　most　stopping　to　light　candles　at　the　votary
shrine。　Candles　for　the　lost；　or　those　who　might　soon　be。
As　usual；　as　she　did　every　morning；　Beqa　Meyer　lit　three：　one　for　Gait；　one　for　her　brother；　Eido；
and　one　for　whoever　might　need　it。
She　was　tired。　Night　shift　at　the　manufactory　had　really　taken　it　out　of　her。　It　had　been　a　struggle
not　to　sleep　through　the　hierarch’s　reading。　If　she’d　been　any　warmer；　she　surely　would　have　dozed
off。　But　her　coat　was　too　thin：　a　second…hand　summer　coat；　not　even　lined。　Perhaps　next　month；　with
her　next　wages　and　what　she　had　put　aside；　she’d　be　able　to　pick　up　a　thermal　jacket　or　better　from
the　Munitorum　almshouse。
As　she　turned　from　the　candle…stand；　she　knocked　against　someone　waiting　their　turn　to　light　an
offering。　It　was　the　man　she’d　seen　by　the　church　door　on　her　way　in　for　the　service。　Tall；　darkhaired；
an　offworlder。　He　had　a　sad　face。　He　was　dressed　like　a　soldier；　and　had　that　scent　of
machine　oil　and　fyceline　about　him。
“My　pardon；　mamzel；”　he　said　at　once。　She　nodded　“no　harm”；　but　kept　a　distance　as　she　went
by。　He’d　been　talking　to　himself　when　she’d　first　seen　him。　A　stranger；　maybe　with　battle…psychosis。
That　was　the　sort　of　trouble　she　didn’t　need。
In　fact；　the　only　thing　she　needed　was　her　rest。　She　could　be　home　by　a　quarter　to　the　hour；　and
that　would　give　her　three　hours’　sleep　before　she’d　have　to　rise　and　dress　for　her　day　job　at　the　pier。
When　that　was　over；　at　evening　bell；　she’d　have　an　hour　to　nap　before　the　night　shift　at　the
manufactory　began。
She　hurried　out　through　the　templum　doors　into　a　cold　street　where　full　daylight　now　shone；　and
made　her　weary　way　back　towards　her　hab。
Over　the　Thedan　Pe