Interceptor City, page 20
‘Why did you ever leave?’
‘Five older siblings. I was never going to inherit. I was expected to spread my wings.’
‘You certainly did that.’
‘Not quite the way the family expected.’
Lopard put his bottle and the candelabrum down on the top of a gold harpsichord that dominated the centre of the room, and lit another lho-stick. Then he tinkled with the keys, and filled the air with a trill of haunting notes.
‘Why show it to me?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘I suppose,’ she ventured, ‘you’ve told me your biggest secret…’
‘The cellar?’ he asked, with a snigger. ‘Oh no, that’s my second biggest secret.’
‘What’s the first?’
Lopard put a finger to his lips and winked.
Jagdea took another swig of her amasec, and slowly turned, taking in the grandeur of the shadowed room. Behind her, bright music began. A sonata by Belique or Charmoday.
She turned. Lopard was sitting at the harpsichord, playing with some finesse, the lho-stick dangling from his mouth.
‘You play?’
‘In a high-born family like mine,’ he said, still playing, ‘one is expected to be accomplished in all aspects of the arts and sciences. My brother played the cornet, which was hateful.’
‘For him or you?’
‘For everybody in earshot.’
He stopped playing abruptly, and swung his leg around so he was straddling the cushioned stool.
‘I want your trust,’ he said, raising his bottle to drink, ‘because you can fly… Really fly.’
‘Once, perhaps–’
‘It’s still in you. So, if you’re winging me–’
‘I’ve explained this, Lopard. I’d cover your six anyway.’
‘You misunderstand,’ he replied. ‘You can fly. The vast majority of the pilots in Six-Six cannot. Oh, they’d want to protect my back, but they can’t. They can’t even protect themselves. These babies. These children, who die so very quickly and so very often. How I wish I could spare them this, this nightmare, before they suffer it for too long. But I can’t. I can’t protect them all.’
He rose to his feet, bottle in one hand, half-smoked lho-stick in the other.
‘I don’t want friends any more than you do,’ he said. ‘Friends cost you. But if I’m going to make allies, if I’m going to broker trust, then I want to make sure it’s with someone who is capable of returning that effort. The children in this squadron can’t, though they wish they could and might intend to. But you can. You, and few others. You can deliver, because you can fly.’
‘So this is all just self-interest?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Driver! Please! If you think that anything anyone ever does is not born out of self-interest, you’re living in the wrong century.’
‘Was there ever a right century?’
‘Not! According! To! The! History! Books!’ he declared, accompanying his statement with a sprightly, bouncing flourish up the keyboard.
The echo of the music died away. The wind grumbled and chewed at the window boards.
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ said Jagdea.
‘You’re Driver.’
‘Don’t eff around. You know.’
‘You’re Bree Jagdea of Phantine. I suspected.’
‘And I confirmed it.’
‘One is expected to be accomplished in all aspects of the arts and sciences,’ said Lopard, ‘and well-versed in history books, especially ones of aeronautic actions. Wing Commander Bree Jagdea of the Phantine Air Corps, multi-ace, commander of Umbra Flight, hero of the Zophonian Sea.’
‘That’s who I used to be. I fear your investment is shaky.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Well, now you have me at a disadvantage. All I know about you is that your name is Lopard, call sign Harlot. You’re Glavian, from a good family, well-educated, dealer in alcohol, contraband and sundry prohibited substances, a dissolute, cynical rake–’
‘Don’t forget “multi-ace”,’ he put in, unfazed.
‘And that. Over-familiar, sexually predatory, drunk–’
‘You’re drunk too.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘Right now. Half a bottle down. But when I said “drunk” in reference to you, I meant pretty much all the time.’
‘Oh, that’s just being picky!’
‘I know you want to get in my good books, and my bed, and my shorts–’
‘I’ve been fairly clear–’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Pilot Officer Reno Hewgin Lopard Delevane. I tend to leave off the dynastic portion.’ He executed a curt but perfect bow.
‘Lopard?’
‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t tell anybody,’ she said. ‘About who I am.’
‘Well, that’s what trust’s all about, isn’t it?’ he replied.
‘I don’t want to carry that rep around. I’m amazed you worked it out.’
‘You’d be amazed at the things I know,’ he said.
She paused. She took a sip from her bottle.
‘Well then, here’s a test,’ she said. ‘What do you know about the Vesperus public transport system?’
By the light of the candelabrum in his hand, Lopard pulled aside the folding metal shutter. The wind that blew in out of the darkness fluttered all the candles out, so they switched back to flashlights.
‘Are you going to explain?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
‘I’m very curious.’
‘I have noticed that about you.’
Beyond the shutter was a wide gantry deck, with bench seating. It was derelict. Beyond the deck, brass-railed steps led down into the enclosed portico of a passenger dock. The dock’s hatches were sealed, but she could hear the wind and rain beating against the outside.
They had climbed back up through the templum’s ruined levels, then out towards the outside wall, which Lopard claimed was above the atrium port of the south facade. The dock gantry projected out, about eighteen hundred feet above street level.
‘Wilzar said he clipped a passenger dock,’ she said.
‘Wilzar?’
‘The relief pilot who came in with me. Smoke.’
‘Oh, that bumptious child.’
‘You saw that right off.’
‘It was hard to miss,’ said Lopard. ‘Didn’t you, the moment you set eyes on him?’
Jagdea had to admit she had.
‘Wilzar said he clipped what he called a passenger dock on his sortie today. Nearly lost a wing. He’s grounded for repairs for a couple of days.’
‘Well, that’s him safe for a while,’ said Lopard.
‘It made me think,’ said Jagdea. ‘I mean, it’s obvious, really… a hive of this scale would have a public transport infrastructure. A considerable one.’
‘Just how drunk are you right now?’
‘Shut up. Listen. A public transport infrastructure. Road carriers, and rail links, all operating at street level, but also higher up. Serving the upper reaches of hive blocks and spires.’
‘Yes, air-ferries. Lift-transporters. Shuttles. Gravs. The airspace here used to be busy.’
‘And all accessed by public docks like this?’
‘Yes,’ said Lopard. ‘There are passenger docks all over the hive. Everywhere. Three, I think, in the templum precinct alone.’
‘I hadn’t noticed them.’
‘Well, you’ve had your eyes on other things, like not dying. The docks are just another hazard to avoid. Something your Wilzar needs to add to his list of things to do.’
‘Stop it. Do you think there are records, somewhere? Archived data?’
‘Of what?’ he asked.
‘Of public transport network routes? You’ve explored this templum, and Throne knows where else. Have you found any Administratum offices? Control centres? Anywhere that records might have survived?’
‘A few,’ said Lopard. ‘Again, records of what? Of transport network routes?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The routes. And the data-maps of those routes.’
‘Why the frig would you want those?’
‘Because,’ she said, ‘those ferry routes, between and through the structures in this hive, were airborne.’
DAY 91
Third drop, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 10:47
They were perched among the tangled girders at the summit of a hive-spire near Korazon Square, clinging by their landing claws.
The storm had blown out in the small hours, but it left behind a deep and impenetrable sea of smog that blanketed the hive and kept the squadron grounded until long after sunrise. No reports were coming in from the ROPs or other Intercepts. Jagdea had been able to bank some more rest, and sleep off the worst of the amasec.
By mid-morning the smog had begun to clear at the higher levels. Below two thousand feet, the air was still zero-zero soup with no light penetration, but Dampier had ordered flights up to prowl above the sinking dust.
She was flying with Garrant and Bloodspot. They’d made a conventional lift on ducts from the roof of the Campanile due to the conditions. Dead drops were out of the question. On instruments only, they had cleared the smog-shrouded pad, and then ascended quickly into clear air and shockingly bright sunlight.
The flight had turned out between the hive blocks and run as far as Maladine, then circled for a while. The view was startling. Vesperus looked as though it had been half-drowned by the ocean, with thick green smog standing waist-deep around the taller structures and obscuring others entirely. Above the smog layer, it was bright and very still, the sun blazing out of a grey sky.
Fuel concerns remained high. With the loss of the resupply, Six-Six’s reserves were draining fast. There was talk in the refectory that the squadron might have to be cut to limited response or even stood down entirely unless a fresh replenishment could be arranged with the ’plex, and there was still no word of that happening. After twenty minutes in the air, and zero sign of contacts, Garrant had ordered them to roost to conserve fuel.
He had chosen a tower near Korazon Square that projected high above the smog. All that remained of the tower’s upper portion was a mangled nest of girders and spars that leaned out over the drop, rusting in the breeze. There, they had settled, ducting in low and slow to seize the girderwork with their landing claws until they were secure. Anchored, they cut power and waited.
The three planes basked in the sun, side by side. They were essentially upright, their noses tilted down slightly. The twisted girders they were gripping creaked under their weight. Jagdea sat in her cockpit with Bloodspot’s bone-white Voss to her left, and Garrant’s blue Cypra just off to her right. Visibility was good. She could see for many miles, and the hard sun glinted off the remains of glass in distant buildings. She yawned. The Voss’ cockpit was too tight for much movement, and she was fighting a persistent cramp in her thigh. The whole experience was bizarre. Just sitting, shut down, perched like lazy vultures, waiting for a war to start.
Half an hour in, she noticed Sorrentine, call sign Bloodspot, pop his canopy so he could stretch his arms and stand up in his seat. He waved over at her. She waved back. Even a semi-dismount looked precarious, but she unlatched her canopy too. The air wasn’t fresh, but it was refreshingly cool compared to the stale recyc in the cockpit, and the sunlight was warm on her face. Garrant remained silent, lid down.
Lead was pissed off with her. At the huddle before lift, he’d demanded to know why she wasn’t carrying any munition stores on her rails. Tarr had been as good as her word, and not loaded Jagdea with missiles at the fit-out. But the chief hadn’t yet scrounged up any hard guns as replacements, and Jagdea’s rails were bare.
Jagdea had apologised to the squadron leader. She’d mentioned an ‘issue with her hardpoints’ but hadn’t got into any details. Garrant had let it go, but he wasn’t happy.
They sat waiting in the hazy glare. Everything was so still.
Her thigh knotted again. Jagdea shouldered around in her seat, trying to find the space to flex it out.
Her intervox crackled.
‘You look uncomfortable in there.’
It was Sorrentine. He was looking across at her from his bird’s open cockpit, mask down, grinning.
‘Copy that, Bloodspot. Leg cramp.’
‘Well, get out and stretch it.’
Jagdea pushed her canopy higher and peered out at him.
‘I’m not getting out,’ she said, holding her mask to her mouth.
‘Afraid of heights, Driver?’
‘Yes.’
She saw Bloodspot nod. Then she saw him undo his straps and stand up in his seat again.
‘Just watching you makes me uneasy,’ she voxed.
‘Then don’t watch,’ Bloodspot voxed back.
He climbed out of his cockpit, and stood on the WALK ONLY of his wing. The wing was a slope, and the drop below terrifying. She heard the tangled girders groan as his weight shifted. Bloodspot stretched his arms extravagantly, then stood upright, head back, face towards the sun. She could see the trail of loops of the bio-impulse umbilicals that wet-linked him to the neuroreactive plasma tanks behind his bird’s seat. Bloodspot had no ejection system. The tanks had been fitted in its place.
He stretched again, languorous, knowing she could see him.
‘Lovely out today,’ he remarked.
‘Stop it,’ she voxed. ‘It’s making me nervous.’
He looked over at her, smiled.
‘It’s safe,’ he said. ‘This is the closest thing to fresh air and daylight I ever get. You know I sleep on a cot under the wing of my bird?’
‘I’ve seen you,’ she replied. For Bloodspot and the other wet-linked pilots, a folding cot under the wing was as far as their umbilical tubes would let them roam. A miserable, limited life. She had no idea how Bloodspot could stand it.
Her thigh muscle locked again. She swore and then, exasperated, unlocked her harness and got up in a crouch on her seat, massaging her leg.
‘Not so bad, eh?’ Bloodspot voxed as he saw her head rise above the canopy line.
‘I’m not getting out.’
‘Try it.’
‘Shut up, Bloodspot.’
‘It’s liberating.’
He walked down his wing-strip and then gently lowered himself off the wing until he was standing on one of the rusting girders supporting his plane. His umbilicals were stretched taut. The girder he was balancing on was only a foot wide. He was bracing himself against the plane’s fuselage with one hand, but then he took that away and stood hands free.
‘Will you stop frigging around?’ she voxed.
He grinned over at her, and started to do a little hip-sway movement, a parody of Gangster’s victory dance.
She couldn’t look. She rotated her ankle and flexed her calf to try to loosen her thigh. Finally, in defeat, she stood up in her seat.
The wind was cool on her face, the sun a vague burn. It was almost like actually flying. Flying without a plane. All she could see was the sky and the top of the city. She inhaled deeply.
‘Flying makes it better,’ Bloodspot said in her ear.
She looked over at him. He was still upright on the girder.
‘This,’ he said, gesturing to the umbilicals trailing behind him. ‘It frigging sucks. Until I get up in the sky. Then I’m free, and it’s worth it.’
She stood tall, easing her leg, and inhaled again. She almost knew what he meant.
Lead’s voice suddenly cut over the comms.
‘Stop being arseholes and wake up. We’ve got a track.’
The vox had gone live suddenly. Jagdea listened to the crackling reports as she sat down and strapped back in. A Six-Six patrol, led by Blindside, had picked up a pair of hostiles moving west near the Pallisades. For reasons that weren’t clear from the message, the bats had slipped past them and were gunning towards Vanitas. Blindside’s flight was in pursuit, but Garrant’s was ideally placed to catch them on the way through.
‘Immediate release and form on me,’ Garrant voxed. She could already hear the whine of his starter.
‘Driver copies, Lead,’ she replied, hitting the voltaic master.
‘Bloodspot, copy.’
Jagdea glanced left as she secured her canopy. Bloodspot had already hoisted himself back into his cockpit, and was lidding up.
She cinched her straps. She’d walked the parish at lift, but she checked all her dials as power brought the preset headache back to life.
Slam-check. Vectors set. Auspex and modar live. Starter primed, pump engaged. Acquisition on, guns on. The compressor rattled as it spooled up. The damn hydraulics still and forever showed red.
‘Lead to wings. Dead drop now.’
Jagdea felt her bird rock as Garrant’s Cypra dropped off the girder perch. She released her landing claws and followed it.
Engine primed but unstarted, she dropped nose-first into free-fall. Bloodspot went a second after her. The nest of girders swayed like a gorse bush behind them as their combined weight let go. The face of the ruined spire rushed past her belly. The hive floor, so far away, was invisible below the smog bank, and that green sea was rushing up at her.
She fired the starter. The forced-plasma exciter ignited the fuel aspirating into the spinning turbine.
Flash-start. The turboram lit.
All three of them plunged into the smog bank, submerged for a second in thick and muffling darkness. Then they climbed back out of it, leaping clear from the upper layer like flying fish skipping out of a wave. Lead banked hard right and they followed him in line, Jagdea, then Bloodspot, a tight, trailing formation.
Garrant hit the burners. The blue Cypra M’s exhausts lit up like furnace slits. Jagdea advanced power and burned off after him. She could feel Bloodspot right on her seven, sticking close.
