Interceptor City, page 34
‘Packet received,’ Jagdea said.
‘What is this gak…?’ Gangster crackled.
‘Gangster, clear vox,’ Exec responded. ‘Go for start. Go for start, immediate release.’
They went off the bell tower, down Orundo, then turned onto Shurac Processional, Badler leading, then Jagdea, then Gangster, expressing full military power. Using the map-track took a while to get used to. The interface was unfamiliar, and none of them had trusted auspex or modar since arriving in Vesperus. Deviation advisory kept pinging.
The routes close to the Campanile were habitual, the opening stretch of many sorties, but the track was taking them ways they wouldn’t have risked, or at heights they wouldn’t have tried. At Shurac, the map confidently led them through a transit conduit beneath the vast Mercantile Palace, a path no pilot at Six-Six had attempted before.
As they turned out and climbed, they were already eight seconds in front of the intercept estimate. The map knew the hive in ways that they didn’t, and couldn’t possibly have put in the hours to learn. A straight line under the powerducts at Sacristy, previously regarded as no-go. A high transit at Trinity Subspire that no one knew existed. A guided low bend onto Calisto that avoided the huge skyway that always took everybody by surprise, and had killed two smokes.
The real gains were in second-by-second stick response. Jagdea’s situational awareness remained high, but she was making far, far fewer micro-corrections to dodge and avoid. The map guided her through places without the need for constant assessment and correction. It knew where to go.
They were flying fast. They were flying low. They were making hard turns. But it all seemed calm, as though they were simply cruising at high-alt on a firm heading. No exhausting hyper-vigilance, dodging, avoiding, jerking the stick.
It was so smooth, it seemed wrong. Jagdea realised it wasn’t the map-track she was trying to get used to, it was the shift in the psychology of her flight approach. Only a couple of times did they force a sudden execute in a flurry of pings to avoid obstructions where war damage had changed the contours of the city.
As they sharp-steered around a collapsed skyway on Horatio, Jagdea reflected that on every previous sortie she’d flown, she would have already executed two dozen moves like that, all at the last moment, in high shred. And not to avoid damage. Just to avoid the city.
It was almost exactly like flying.
On comms, Badler made no comment of approval, but Jagdea hadn’t expected any. Yesof, meanwhile, kept chuckling and uttering gleeful ‘woo-hoo’s.
They rolled out over Pallisades West two minutes ahead of projection, and measurably less shred-fatigued. Below, through the low vapour, three bats were running south-west. Two Blades and a Talon. The Six-Six fightbirds overbanked to visually confirm target, then tipped over from their perch to bounce them from above.
They took one each.
Hangar bay, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 09:01
‘A few knots to work out,’ said Badler grudgingly, ‘but it’s promising.’
Garrant nodded.
‘It makes things real nice and smooth,’ said Gangster.
‘It’s the implementation that’s going to give us the biggest headache,’ said Garrant. ‘There’s a lot of work to do preparing the packets, and then squirting the right packets to the right birds in a fast shout. But that makes it a dispersal issue, and a problem for Control, not a flying issue.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jagdea, ‘but we mustn’t forget the complacency issue.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Garrant.
‘She means it feels real easy,’ said Gangster. ‘We could get lazy quick. Right?’ She looked at Jagdea for confirmation.
‘Exactly that,’ said Jagdea. ‘Use of the pathfinder programme will give us appreciable benefits. It’s going to be a vital tool. But Yesof is right. It makes it feel easy. In contrast to what we’ve been experiencing, it is. But Vesperus is not easy. There is a risk of reliance, and thus complacency. Pilots must maintain rigid situational awareness or the hive is still going to kill them. The map’s an enhancement upgrade and a great support tool, but it’s not omniscient. It can’t be allowed to replace what we’re already doing. It just eases the strain a little.’
‘Noted,’ said Garrant. ‘So we instruct to fly as rigorously as always, with the mapping as an extra trick in our arsenal. All right, stand down, and get food and hydration.’
‘Yesof? A moment,’ said Jagdea as they turned away.
Leader’s office, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 11:12
‘You said this was informal,’ said Garrant, ‘but you’ve closed the door.’
‘Informal, but private,’ replied Jagdea.
He sat at his desk and offered her the chair opposite.
‘Our conversation earlier, about Wilzar,’ she said. ‘I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. But it’s already out there.’
Garrant had been about to go through some reports while she talked, but he put them aside. He looked at her, and raised his eyebrows in a long-suffering lack of surprise.
‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘Let me guess–’
‘Doesn’t matter who leaked it,’ she said. ‘Everyone talks here. Stories are currency. A pilot brought it to me. I remained non-committal, but the pilot gave me to understand it wasn’t a big surprise.
‘Which part?’ asked Garrant.
‘The idea that we might have a white crow.’
‘Well, we don’t,’ said Garrant. ‘Why would they think this?’
‘Several losses over the last few weeks, all smokes, where the circumstances are not clear,’ said Jagdea.
‘Not clear?’
‘Not definitive.’
‘We have a high rate of losses–’ Garrant began.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But many are demonstrably pilot error, and others verified enemy kills. There are a number where actual cause of loss is not definitive.’
‘It’s hard to be definitive about a lot of things in Vesperus,’ said Garrant.
‘Some names were mentioned,’ said Jagdea. ‘Incidents. The rumour’s not new, Asa. Wilzar was just the latest example. Is that why you were evasive when I asked if Dampier was investigating? You already know there’s a problem?’
‘You know what a white crow is, Jagdea?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s the Aeronautica term for a rogue or renegade who uses the confusion of war to kill, for whatever psychological reason. Breakdown, latent psychopathy, derangement… a white crow commits atrocities outside the legal remit of war, often against his or her own comrades.’
Garrant smiled a humourless, patient smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant, do you know why we use the term “white crow”?’
She realised she didn’t.
‘It’s because they don’t exist,’ said Garrant. ‘All crows are black. To prove that statement false, one does not have to find all the black crows in existence, merely one white crow. The single anomaly disproves the rule. No white crow has ever been found.’
‘That’s just pedantry, surely?’ she replied. ‘Asa, forget the term. There are many archived examples of rogue combatants in every branch of the Imperial military, including the service. Traitors, heretics, spies, deserters, psychotics–’
‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘But this specific idea of a serial hunter, an assassin, a predator, dwelling secretly among us and picking us off under cover of combat circumstance. There’s never been a recorded instance. That’s what you’re talking about.’
‘When Wilzar said what he said,’ she replied, ‘I thought we were looking at a friend-on-friend accident to which no one had confessed. But now that’s what I’m talking about.’
‘No one in Six-Six–’
‘Then maybe a neighbouring Intercept?’ she said.
‘Jagdea–’
‘Is this being investigated as a potential white crow?’ she asked. ‘Is this why you’re being so evasive?’
‘I asked you to keep a lid on it,’ he said, ‘because this place talks. You just said it yourself. Shit gets said. Stories are currency. The matter of your rep, for example. Given that, don’t you think someone would have said something at some point? Some accidental remark. Not a confession, but something that seemed off?’
‘I don’t think a white crow is going to admit killing their own to anyone,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But just a slip. Something behavioural. This place is tight, and it talks. If there was a killer operating, there’d be a suspect or two by now.’
She couldn’t bring herself to admit she had a few suspects in mind already.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘If this is what you’re thinking, why didn’t you bring it to Deck Dampier?’
‘Because I don’t know what to make of her,’ Jagdea replied. ‘And if I took it to her, it would become formal really quickly. I don’t feel she’s ready for yet more trouble from me. So I’m here, informally, privately.’
For a moment, he didn’t reply.
‘Jagdea,’ he said, after the pause had become uncomfortably long, ‘I appreciate you coming to me quietly. I want you to put this aside and focus on your duties. Consider me aware of your concerns. Know, please, that I do not think we have a white crow.’
‘All right,’ she said. She rose to her feet. ‘But think about this. If white crows don’t exist, why does the Aeronautica have a term for them?’
Dead zone, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 22:57
Another storm had come in, early in what passed for evening, pelting the Campanile with rain. It didn’t ease back, and after an hour was joined by lurid pink lightning that sizzled across the hive-scape and boomed like artillery.
The night’s huddle, held in hangar three once more, had been well-attended and lively, despite the fact that Gumm had seemed subdued. The group, the largest so far, had discussed angles of deflection and boresight shooting. Jagdea had wanted to mention the pathfinder programme, so that pilots could be prepared when their turn came to try it. But it hadn’t been made official, and she didn’t want to talk out of turn.
‘Are you all right?’ she had asked Gumm when the meeting broke up.
‘Fine,’ he had replied. ‘Just tired.’
He wouldn’t be drawn further, and she didn’t press it. He seemed off with her, and she was sure it was because he knew what was on her mind.
Thundercracks, now sounding catastrophic, shook the stonework of the old templum as she made her way out into the dead zones alone. She followed the route that Lopard had shown her, out through the chantry and the non-secure chamber beyond, picking her way by flashlight.
Twice, she thought she’d taken a wrong turn.
As she approached what had once been the High Ecclesiarch’s private sanctum, she heard music over the hammering rain outside. A harpsichord, some melancholy cantata.
On a velvet upholstered sofa just inside the door, she found Camo asleep under a pile of blankets. The girl’s clothes were strewn on the floor beside her boots, along with someone else’s discarded clothing. Kinny stirred, restlessly, but didn’t wake. Jagdea turned off her flashlight. She could smell the lingering residue of stimms.
In the main chamber, Lopard was playing the harpsichord by the light of a candelabrum. Lopard was naked except for the shorts of his flightsuit. A bottle of amasec, full and sealed, sat on the top of the instrument beside the candelabrum. Jagdea could see the old scars notching his muscled back, the patches of blue fibreweave graft at the base of his spine. The mosaic floor shone in the candlelight. The boarded windows rattled at the onslaught outside.
He stopped playing.
‘Coming up at my six?’ he asked, without turning his head.
‘Just hunting for the good stuff,’ she replied.
He turned to face her, and grinned.
‘Well, you know where to find it,’ he said.
‘And someone to share it with,’ she said. ‘Though you seem to have that covered.’ She gestured over her shoulder at the girl comatose in the far corner.
Lopard wiped the air with a dismissive hand.
‘She’s asleep,’ he said. He reached for the bottle. His movements were slightly clumsy. He seemed half-cut already, though the amasec was untouched. Jagdea saw stimm canisters discarded on the floor under the harpsichord.
‘Heavy night?’ she asked.
Lopard snorted, and pulled the cork from the bottle.
‘Just another day,’ he said. He handed her the bottle without taking a sip or getting up. She took it, raised it in a casual toast, and swigged.
‘So,’ he said, leaning back against the keys, which plunked slightly under his elbows. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you changed your mind?’
Jagdea scowled. ‘No, Reno,’ she said. ‘And even if I had, you’re occupied.’
‘Kinny won’t mind,’ he said. ‘Kinny can be very friendly and inclusive.’
‘Still no,’ she said.
‘Still can’t believe her name is Kinny,’ he responded.
He held out his hand. She gave him the bottle.
‘So if it wasn’t the promise of my company…’ he said.
‘Just a drink,’ she said.
‘Well, Driver,’ he said. His left eye twitched, and he rubbed it and blinked. ‘I thought we had a trust.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You didn’t come down here for a drink.’
‘And conversation,’ she said.
‘About?’
Jagdea hesitated. Now she was here, she regretted it. Stupid. She had no idea what she was hoping to achieve.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You look tense, Driver.’ He took a drink, then handed the bottle back to her. Then he got up and padded across the mosaic floor to the clothes scattered beside Camo’s makeshift bed. Thunder roared like a Medusa outside.
‘I think I know what this is about,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ she replied.
He bent down, and rummaged around in his clothes, rifling pockets. When he rose again, he had his silver case and his igniter.
‘Do you ever take those off?’ she asked as he wandered back to join her, fishing a lho-stick from his case and lighting it.
Lopard looked down at his undershorts and smirked.
‘The gloves,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said. He regarded his gloves as though bemused to find that he was still wearing them. They were short, stopping just below the wrist, short enough for her to glimpse where his dark skin ended and the glint of microdermal circuitry began.
‘Not if I can help it,’ he said. ‘It’s a Glavian thing, a custom. Besides, I’d feel naked without them.’
‘And how does Kinny feel about that?’
‘I didn’t hear her complain,’ he said. ‘Although she was very vocal–’
‘Enough,’ said Jagdea. ‘Go on, then. Why do you think I’m here?’
‘White crow!’ he said, dramatically, hands thrown wide like a compere presenting the next act.
‘So talk about that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘Everybody else is.’
He held the silver case open and offered it to her.
‘No thanks,’ she said.
He closed it with a snap, and put it and the igniter down on the harpsichord. He gazed up at the painted ceiling reflectively, as though seeing it for the first time.
‘Word has it,’ he said, exhaling smoke, ‘we have a white crow. Did for your Wilzar.’
‘Wilzar’s not dead,’ she said.
‘Might as well be, though. Poor child. Anyway, the whisper goes he’s not the first. There’s been gossip for weeks. And I supposed that gossip has now reached you, because of Wilzar and what Wilzar allegedly said, and you, manifesting the crippling responsibility for everything that you seem to carry like a permanent yoke, have decided to look into it.’
He glanced at her.
‘How right am I so far?’
‘Not bad,’ she said.
‘So, what’s your thinking?’ he asked. ‘Personally, I think it’s all groxshit, but if we do have a crow, my money’s on one of the observants. A Throne-devoted zealot.’
‘Really?’
‘All that damnation and punishment?’ he asked. ‘That obsession with sinners? I wouldn’t put it past them.’
‘So you suspect–’
‘No, Jagdea, not really,’ he interrupted, sarcastically. ‘Faith may be fierce, but it’s not sociopathic. Not here, anyway. I was just making conversation.’
She took a sip of amasec.
‘Conversation is good,’ she said. ‘But so’s honesty.’
‘How am I not being honest?’ he asked.
Jagdea glanced towards the sleeping Camo.
‘You said you never brought anyone down here,’ she said. ‘Said it was your sanctuary.’
‘You’re so naive,’ he replied, his tone testy. ‘Yes, all right. I lie. Sometimes. Especially where women are concerned. You weren’t the first I brought down here, and Kinny won’t be the last. So what? Where are you going with this?’
‘This rumour’s been around for a while, like you said,’ she murmured, ‘since before I arrived. There are certain losses that seem to fit a pattern. All downed without cause verification. Wilzar. Dicebag. Tailend. Voxback…’
Lopard suddenly looked at her sharply. Some odd, slightly hazy change came over his face, as though he had rapidly sobered up.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Now just wait…’
‘Lopard–’
‘Now I get it,’ he said. ‘Now I understand the conversation you want to have. Screw you. Screw you, Jagdea. You think it’s me.’
