Interceptor City, page 41
‘Then it’s all worked out,’ remarked Dampier curtly. ‘We’ll leave you to rest.’
‘Who else?’ Jagdea asked as they made for the door.
‘What?’ asked Badler.
‘You said you were down several sticks,’ she said. ‘Who else? Who else have we lost?’
‘We’ll let you rest,’ said Dampier.
Infirmary, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 15:03
Sometimes, the God-Emperor remembered your name. Offered you a second chance. Brought you back from the dead.
Only a fool would ignore that. A fool, or someone eager to join the shrieking hosts of the damned. You took the deal. You didn’t question it, or negotiate the terms. You took it, even if you didn’t understand what it would entail, or where you would end up.
She lay there for a few hours, but sleep wasn’t going to happen. When Med Stanslaf left the infirmary, she got out of bed and detached her monitors. She had a limp, she discovered. The wound in her leg throbbed. She borrowed Stanslaf’s coat, which was hanging on the back of the door, and put it on over the paper smock she was wearing. It was a clumsy business doing it with bandaged hands.
The hallway outside was empty and quiet. She limped along, one hand against the polished rockcrete wall for support, heading for the central staircase. She’d got quite a long way when she heard footsteps, and saw Tantrum and Nosedive strolling towards her. They stopped dead when they saw her.
‘Are you sure you should be up?’ Glick asked, his face furrowed in concern.
‘Who died?’ Jagdea asked.
‘What?’ asked Steeley.
‘No one will tell me anything,’ she said. ‘Who died? Who have we lost since I… since I went down?’
Glick and Steeley glanced nervously at each other. Steeley said something that Jagdea didn’t catch, and Tantrum hurried away with a nod.
‘Where’s he going?’ Jagdea asked, irritated. ‘Glick?’
‘You really shouldn’t be up, Driver,’ said Steeley gently. He took a step forward, reaching out.
‘I really shouldn’t be alive,’ she replied, brushing off his hand. ‘Answer the question. Who died? Who else have we lost, Steeley?’
‘Garrant,’ he said solemnly. ‘You know about Garrant?’
‘I know about Garrant. Who else?’
She saw him think about it for a second, and realised death was such a daily routine at Six-Six, all the losses blurred into one.
‘Blowout,’ he said. ‘We lost Blowout, the day before last. Longlas the same day. No, day before. Jongleur and Shovel, same day as Garrant. And Fancy, last night.’
‘Fancy?’
‘Smoke,’ said Steeley. ‘He arrived on the replenishment.’
‘So he lasted two days?’ said Jagdea.
Steeley nodded. The smoke had come and gone in two days, without her even knowing him.
‘Did Slipstream make it back?’ she asked. ‘The day I went down? And Merry Death?’
Steeley nodded again.
‘Yes, they both came home,’ said a voice behind her.
Jagdea shuffled around. Glick had returned. He’d brought Gumm.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘That should be my question,’ said Gumm softly. He reached out to take her arm.
‘You shouldn’t be here!’ Jagdea snapped. ‘You should be in Orison. You should’ve gone back with Wilzar.’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ he replied. He glanced at Glick and Steeley. ‘Off you go,’ he told them. ‘I’ve got this.’
The younger pilots hesitated, then walked away.
‘Did Badler rescind your release too?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Gumm. ‘Well, he would have done. I didn’t give him the chance. I told him I wasn’t going back.’
‘Why the hell would you do that?’
‘Because I wasn’t going anywhere until they’d found you,’ he replied.
Refectory, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 16:54
‘I could’ve been dead,’ Jagdea said.
‘I thought you were,’ said Gumm. ‘But I stayed to find out. I wasn’t going to just up and leave.’
‘That’s stupid,’ she said.
‘That’s what friends do,’ he replied.
She took a sip of water from a chipped glass. She hadn’t touched much of her food.
‘That’s why we don’t make them,’ she said. ‘It makes you do stupid things. Like not leave when you get the chance.’
‘Get over yourself,’ he replied. ‘It’s not as noble as it sounds. Badler wouldn’t have let me go anyway.’
She looked up at the board over the fireplace. She was aware that people at the tables nearby were still looking at her. The aviators and crews in the refectory had made a fuss when Gumm first walked her in, until he’d quietened them down.
There were so many more names struck through on the board than the last time she’d been there. New tallies too. Two more marks beside DOLLFACE.
‘You’ve been busy in my absence,’ she said.
‘We all have,’ said Gumm. ‘The raids are escalating.’
‘What’s this “shift in operational profile”?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Badler hasn’t told us yet. Apparently, it’s been coming for a while. An initiative from high command.’
‘Fancy was a smoke,’ she said. ‘Blowout and Shovel too. Who were up with them?’
Gumm sighed. ‘Are you still on about that?’ he asked. ‘I had hoped you might have let it go, what with–’
‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘There’s a white crow somewhere.’
‘Jagdea…’
‘There is, Gumm.’
He sat back. ‘Well, neither Blowout nor Fancy were definitive.’
‘And who was up with them?’
‘Everyone,’ he replied. ‘It’s been a busy time. Multiple intercepts in the air, right through the day. Look, Bree… it feels like you’re obsessing.’
‘I think it’s more alarming that you’re not,’ she said.
‘You nearly died–’
‘I had a lot of time to think,’ she said. ‘Out there, in the depths. A lot of time.’
‘About what?’
‘Life and death. The usual. And I made a deal.’
‘With who?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t matter. Myself.’
‘A deal about what?’
‘That doesn’t matter either, Gumm,’ she said. ‘But I made a commitment.’
‘To?’
‘This place,’ she said. ‘These people. Pretty similar to the decision you made when the carry-flight came in, I should think. A commitment to stay. To fight. And that includes fighting anything that’s trying to kill us.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think you’re wrong.’
‘Just wing me if I need it,’ she said.
He nodded. She got to her feet.
‘I need to see some people,’ she said.
‘Dressed like that?’ he asked.
She looked down. She was still wearing the surgical smock and Stanslaf’s coat.
‘I’ll go to stores first,’ she said. ‘Then I’ve got to see some people.’
‘You should make sure Camo is one of them,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘She’s been a mess since you went missing. She thinks she was the one who shot you down.’
‘What? She didn’t.’
‘That day, over Machinko,’ said Gumm. ‘She hit your bird.’
Jagdea frowned. She remembered it now, just one piece of the blur. The wild tangle.
‘She didn’t shoot me down,’ she said. ‘I was evading. It was an accident. I flew through her envelope.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Gumm. ‘But she’s been beside herself ever since. Came back and reported it to Dampier immediately.’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Jagdea. She looked at Gumm. ‘You see what I mean, though? Accidents happen. Pilots report it. To hell with guilt or blame, they report it. They don’t cover it up.’
The chapel, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 18:30
It turned out the Campanile had a chapel. Jagdea had never seen it, or even heard about it. She thought that the squadron’s shrines were the fireplace of the refectory, and the altar in the dead zone chantry.
But there was an actual chapel, for service use, on the floor below Control.
It was small and clean, better swept and cared for than any room in the station, including the infirmary. Tapers burned softly below a gleaming mosaic of the God-Emperor. He was flanked by the saints of the Sabbat Worlds. Kiodrus bore the Emperor’s sword. Sabbat herself carried fire in her hands.
Jagdea stood in the cool silence for a moment, breathing the scent of incense and floor polish. She’d drawn clothes from stores: black boots, grey trousers, a white vest and a black leather flight jacket, all donated by their previous owners. Jagdea had asked the quartermaster to return Stanslaf’s coat to him.
Sister Meredith was kneeling in prayer at the altar. The quartermaster had said that Jagdea could probably find Merry Death in the chapel, and then he’d had to explain where the chapel was.
Jagdea waited, out of respect, for the Sister to finish her devotions. As she waited, she gazed at the mosaic. She lingered on the saint with fire in her hands. For a moment, she could hear the scream of wolves.
Her own hands felt like they were full of fire too. She looked down at the bandages. The pain meds were wearing off.
Meredith rose, bowed, and turned to leave. She saw Jagdea.
‘You returned,’ she said.
‘Back from the dead,’ said Jagdea.
‘Prayers offered were not in vain,’ replied the Sister. She lowered her gaze, and began to walk to the door.
‘I was spared,’ said Jagdea.
The Sister stopped, and glanced at her.
‘What did you mean by that, Meredith?’ Jagdea asked. ‘You came to find me. You said, “You will be spared.” You blessed me with a mark.’
‘The holy aquila,’ said Meredith.
‘What did you mean?’
‘I have no answer for you,’ said Meredith. ‘Meaning belongs to the God-Emperor, not to a–’
‘No,’ said Jagdea. ‘I’m not going to have that kind of conversation with you. You say very little.’
‘My actions speak for me.’
‘Then I’ll be direct. You kill sinners, Sister. It seems this place is full of sinners. Are you killing them?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Meredith. It was the first time Jagdea had seen the Sister’s face register anything beyond disapproval or contempt.
‘There’s a white crow,’ said Jagdea. ‘Is it you? Tell me now. The Emperor is watching. The Emperor and His saints. They’ll know if you’re lying, and so will I.’
‘I would never do that,’ said Meredith. Her voice had become very small. Jagdea could see the shock and confusion in her eyes.
‘No?’
‘You are asking me if I have slain my own brothers and sisters?’ asked Meredith. ‘By treachery? By deceit?’
‘That’s what a white crow does. You’ve heard the stories, then?’
‘Idle lies. Rumours.’
‘Is it you?’
‘I could not do it,’ said Meredith. She took a step towards Jagdea. ‘The God-Emperor would bind my hands and strike me dead if I turned against His children.’
‘Then why did you tell me I would be spared?’
‘You are an effective pilot,’ said Meredith. ‘This unit needs you. I have tried to keep you in my prayers, so that the Emperor might spare you.’
‘So I can kill more sinners?’
‘Of course,’ said the Sister. ‘And I know that you are blessed.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I know who you are. It is spoken of. You are Bree Jagdea of Phantine. You are but one removed from the Saint herself.’
‘How?’
‘You served at Cirenholm,’ said Meredith. ‘I have read this. You served in the presence of Ibram Gaunt. He was the one who brought the Saint back to us. Saved her and raised her up. Now he stands at her side as Lord Executor, like Kiodrus reborn. You knew him. Met him. The sanctity of the Beati is thus imparted to you through that lineage.’
‘That’s… that’s backwards,’ said Jagdea. ‘I served with him briefly, a long time ago. Before any of that happened. He was nobody then, just an officer with promise. I never met the Saint.’
‘Sanctity cares nothing for time, or causal order,’ said the Sister. ‘Ibram Gaunt was chosen by the God-Emperor to find and restore the Beati. You walked with him on the road that took him there. You were part of his holy duty, thus a measure of her grace is transmitted to you. The Beati has returned to save us all, but you have come closer to her than many.’
Jagdea wanted to scoff, to laugh at Meredith’s superstitious folly. But the Sister’s sincerity felt genuine, and her hands hurt like fire.
‘So I, in turn, pass a little of that grace to you?’ she asked.
‘If the God-Emperor wills it,’ Meredith replied with a nod. ‘I pray that it is so, that you bring a little of her to us. I could not lie to you, Jagdea, any more than I could lie to her. He would see it. I am not this killer you speak of. I would hunt this sinner with you, for they stand in opposition to our faith in the Throne.’
‘Then tell me if you hear anything,’ said Jagdea. ‘The slightest thing. Come to me directly. I’m not so concerned with faith, Sister, for faith can look after itself. But I am concerned with the lives of the men and women in Six-Six.’
‘I will,’ said Meredith. ‘The Emperor protects.’
‘He protects through us,’ Jagdea replied. ‘Through our actions. Just like He protected the Beati through Gaunt. Don’t forget that. He can’t protect us if we don’t let Him act through us.’
Meredith nodded, and walked away towards the door.
Then she stopped, and looked back.
‘I think you are wrong, Jagdea,’ she said.
‘Wrong?’
‘You say you have never met the Saint. But I think you have.’
Hangar bay, Intercept 66, Vesperus, 20:14
‘I heard you’d come back,’ said Slipstream. He sat up on his cot as Jagdea walked up. Mischief was asleep on her cot, under the wing of her bird nearby.
‘Back from the dead,’ said Jagdea.
Slipstream nodded. ‘We all do that every day,’ he said, ‘every time we go out. But you came back a little further than most.’
Jagdea stood for a moment, looking up at Slipstream’s fightbird, her bandaged hands stuffed in her jacket pockets.
‘Did you want something, Driver?’ Slipstream asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed. He looked sicker than ever.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You want me to thank you?’
‘For what?’ she asked.
‘Covering my tail that day at Harquin. Is that why you’re here?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Well, good,’ said Slipstream. He sat back, and took a swig of something from a plastek bottle. ‘I mean, it’s not that I didn’t appreciate it. But asking for thanks, that’s an arsehole move. You don’t ask for thanks–’
‘I’m not asking for thanks,’ she said.
‘Then what do you want?’
‘The white crow.’
Slipstream’s face pulled into an ugly sneer.
‘That?’ he said. ‘That’s just glory story bullshit.’
‘Is it?’
‘Glory story bullshit,’ he repeated emphatically, looking her dead in the eyes.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘You’ve heard the chatter, then?’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘Smoke rumours. Scuttlebutt. The usual whispers. Someone’s always got to make up some shit in the refectory. I’m surprised at you. I heard you had experience. You should know better than to listen to nonsense.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘So why did that bring you here?’ he asked.
‘Do you know anything?’ she asked back.
‘Hard to know anything about something that isn’t real,’ he replied.
‘But if it is real,’ she said, studying his face for reaction, or some kind of tell. ‘If it is real, this white crow… it would have to be a pilot who was pretty frigging bleak in outlook, right? Someone who’d lost the will. Who didn’t care.’
‘I guess…’
‘Someone who didn’t really value life, and thought that smokes should learn by their own mistakes.’
She let that hang. It didn’t take long.
‘Frig you, Jagdea,’ Slipstream said. It was quiet, barely a hiss, but it cut the air like a bolt-round. He was on his feet suddenly, faster than she’d expected, faster and angrier.
‘You frig!’ he snarled. ‘You piece of shit! Really? Me? You’re accusing me?’
‘I’m asking you,’ she said.
He came towards her, moving with power and intent, the fat loops of his umbilical feeds playing out behind him.
‘And I’m telling you,’ he growled. ‘Frig you. And frig you for even asking. You come here and ask me that? Accuse me? To my frigging face?’
‘What’s going on?’ Mischief mumbled, woken by the raised voices and sitting up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘This bitch just asked me if I was the white crow!’ Slipstream exclaimed. ‘Accused me! To my face!’
‘There isn’t a white crow,’ Mischief mumbled, not fully awake.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter!’ Slipstream yelled. ‘The frigging accusation is what matters! Bree Jagdea, hero of the Zoph, thinks she can come in here, bold as frigging brass, and say that to me! To me!’
‘We need to find the white crow,’ Jagdea said, staying as calm as she could. ‘I need to ask.’
‘You need a frigging slap is what!’ Slipstream shouted. He was right in her face, pulling at the limit of his umbilicals. Rage had made the puffy flesh of his face pale and blotchy.
