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Chapter II, Dawn Patrol

>The Echo isn't the nicest airship you've ever seen, at least not once you work your way out of the corridors and into her superstructure, and it doesn't take you long to do just that. She's leaner than most, and that means the wood and brass trim and climate control stop a little sooner than you're sometimes ready for. >Today is one of those days, evidently, as you find yourself pausing a moment before the fogged glass porthole of the door leading out from the bow quarters, and onto the narrow catwalk that runs the length of her keel. >You've never been a huge fan of the keel-walk. It's a cold, damp place, and depending on where you are, it can offer either the most awe-inspiring views, or the tightest spaces. >You actually don't care for either. >As nice as the views are, you're not sure you like dangling from narrow wires, with a tiny railing and the taught, gray skin of the envelope the only thing between you and the great, vaulted sky. >You don't think you're scared of heights, but you've only been here a few days, and you've already had a dream about falling off and punching through. >That said, it's the fastest way to almost anywhere, and Whitney's right on your heels. >Besides, you're the real deal, right? >The guys in the moving pictures have sword fights on keel-ways. And yeah, that might be fiction, but shit, you can at least walk on one. >Even if you sometimes have to be a little careful not to look down, or think too much about how strong the skin is or isn't. >You open the door and step out, the narrow walkway weaving a little under your falsely-confident footfall.

>The cold is swift and thorough, even as you zip your jacket to the collar. >You can feel its clammy tendrils working their way between the strands of fleece and the mesh of the zipper. >You thrust your hands into your pockets and work them into the sheepskin gloves stored within. >Advancing a few steps, you turn and wait for Whitney, whom you assume is hesitating herself. >Turns out she isn't giving you the pleasure. >She's right on your heels. >Scarcely bothering with the handrails, she gazes up into the superstructure with a sort of wonder you don't think you've quite felt since you were about twelve. >Another grin slides across her muzzle as she studies the ballonets and tension wires, showing a few more teeth this time. Her breath condenses in thick clouds, gathering on her whiskers as snow. > "Big, isn't it?" >You keep moving, stepping a little more cautiously. > "Big? It's incredible! I could spend all day here!" >You'd really rather not, but this is your chance to prove you know what you're talking about. > "You see those gas bladders?" > "Yeah, they're beautiful! And so much bigger in person!" > "Well they ain't for show. Every day each one of them manages the flow of thousands of gallons of flammable hydrogen. Those are our life blood,--" > "And we get to protect them," she chirps. > "This isn't an easy job, kid." >Yesterday was pretty easy, but you're certain the other shoe will drop sooner rather than later. > "Oh, I don't reckon. Would have slept better if I had." > "Yeah, well just stick with me and do as I say. Keep your head, and you'll be alright." >That second sentence was probably more for your own benefit than hers. > "Can do, Cap'n." >Shit, now she'd called you captain. This day just keeps getting better.

>Another few minutes of careful walking bring you to the bulkhead of hangar B. >It's the larger of Echo's two hangars, broad enough for twins and the wingspan they tended to bring with their extra engine. It's longer too, such that one might land something with an approach speed in some excess of Echo's at cruise power. >You enter from the side into a recessed alcove, the icy morning wind whipping angrily over the runway no more than thirty feet from you, casting gusts about like breaking waves and streaking the metal walls with dew. >The temperature drops sharply as you step in, enough to make even Whitney shiver and flip the collar of her jacket up under her scarf. >You'd like to think you're used to it, but it's tough to pretend that's so. >It's only the third time you've been out here, and, while it might not be quite so shocking anymore, the few hours you have under your belt have done nothing to take the edge off. >Your nose burns as ice crystallizes in its lower regions and your hands set straight to shaking. >You do your best to hide it as you stumble toward your airplane. >She's an Eastern-Aerodyne P-73 Cormorant, an amphibian flying boat with a broad fuselage and wings that bent like a seagull's so her props would clear the waterline. >A logistics airplane really, though more slippery than most. You've kitted her as a sort of night fighter. Hardly the cutting edge anymore, but proven by a decade of service and a good, solid war. >Besides, you don't have the luxury of purebreds. If someone needs something moved from A to B, you'd like to be as suited to flying it there yourself as you are to escorting it. There's freedom in that, and you fancy yourself the vagabond type. And it hadn't stopped Ol' Steve painting a few silhouettes on her bow, had it? >Of course, this was Steve who had claimed he'd fucked an anthro. >You have your doubts, but if Whitney mentions them, you'll think you'll just say they were your kills and hope she doesn't pry. >You've given her a pretty good show so far, you think. >She'll listen to you. >Captain. >The very word drives the tentacles of cold away with a warm wave of validation. >You stop short just behind the left main wing and turn to Whitney, trying to remember something Steve told you a long time ago. > "Now remember, kid, it's always a lot better to be down and wishing you were up than up and wishing you were down. It's easy to get complacent, but before every flight--" >She ducks out from beneath the horizontal stabilizer, keeping the elevator pinned at the top of its travel with her off hand. She cocks her head at you, looking vaguely hurt. > "I do know how to fly, you know?" >She ducks back under the stabilizer and runs a blunted claw along the elevator hinge. > "Also, your pitch trim jackscrew's rusted to shit. Will you work the trim for me real quick cap'n? Don't know about you, but I'd rather it not get stuck, myself." >Holy fuck, the last time you'd bothered to really look at the jackscrew had been how long ago now? >You can't help flinching. > "Uh, yeah. I've had my eye on it. It's been fine, but we can check it if you want." > "Well, if you've had your eye on it...." > "No, no. We should check. It'll just take a second." >You hurry to the cockpit and haul yourself over the window frame, leaving the canvas covering open behind you. >Any luck and it'll go the whole way. You don't really want to come up with any more respectable-sounding excuses. >Even if part of you is already pretty sure this masquerade was a greenhorn mistake all its own, and it might be better to let it die. >But okay, maybe she does know what she's talking about. >She's still in over her head, right? >And it's not really a masquerade. You know what you're doing; you're the real deal. >She needs you, and you need her to listen to you. >Probably. >You flick the trim wheel, grimacing as you feel it stick toward the bottom stop. > "Other way?" >You flick it back, feeling it catch a little then free itself again. >She mumbles something skeptical, her voice echoing dully behind the aluminum. You get to work testing electrical systems, maneuvering carefully to keep from scratching yourself on any of the plentiful sharp edges. >Despite the tight quarters, you find yourself relaxing as you work. The cabin pulls you into a cramped, metallic embrace as you ease yourself into the left seat, wrapping you up in a blanket of familiar sights, sounds, and smells. >The ragged whir of the attitude gyro behind the panel; the chug and whimper of the fuel pumps. >The warm amber glow of the oil pressure warning light. >The sweat, smoky flavors of leather, oil, fuel, and dew. >Just like the very first time you'd ever climbed inside her, your eyes bright and wide as the first rays of dawn fell across that old grassy strip back home. >But even then they'd seemed familiar. You'd dug and dug for whatever memory they'd belonged to, but never found it. >Even if some mornings it seemed right at the tip of your tongue. >But no matter. >It was a warm, familiar feeling. A sense of belonging you can't seem to find anywhere else. >Proof that you were who you said you are, and that this was what you were meant to do. >That you were the real deal.

>A knock on the glass brings you back to reality just as you snap the last switch on the checklist. You startle a little when you look up to find Whitney's muzzle on the far side of the window. > "It's pretty sticky, but it'll do. I'll take care of it when we get back. Other than that, we've got thirty-five gallons in each tank, no water. 10 quarts of oil in the left engine, nine quarts in the right. Free movement on all other control surfaces. How's the weather?" >Fuck, you knew you were forgetting something. > "Uh, come on in and we'll go over it. Not like we're going far." >She nods dutifully. > "Just let me grab the tiedowns." >She drops away from the window again. You flick the radio on; it comes to life with a champagne cork pop and a crackle of static. >Suddenly you're nervous. >You're used to talking with Jim, who runs the little observation "tower" back home. >You've had beers with Jim. >This is a real airship weather deck. >They probably don't have much patience for fuckups, and you don't really want to start your day getting bitched out over the radio. >Certainly not with Whitney there to hear. >But you would definitely like to know just how much wind shear you should expect once you're off the deck. It was a lot last time. Thinking back to what Steve taught you in the beginning, you conjure the most professional voice you can come up with. > "Echo weather, Screamin' Eagle." >God damn you regretted telling anyone that was your "callsign". >Turns out that's not how those tend to work out here. Turns out you're supposed to earn one, and usually for worse. >Like Tucker "Whirlygig" Riley, who fucked up hand proping his little biplane, got lucky, and only received a mild concussion and dose of ridicule for his trouble. >Fortunately the radio comes to life before you can cringe any further at yourself. > "Mornin' Squawkin' Bird, Echo weather..." >The transmission stays hot for an audible coffee-sip. "...what can I do for yeh?" >Okay, maybe this won't be so bad. > "Launch and escort brief?" > "Mmm, well we've got about a two-degree skid going, and at sixty knots... 'Gonna be about two knots of shear when you clear the hangar." >Another coffee slurp. > "'N after that, we got some thin fog outside. Reckon it burns off within the hour though. No major convection between here 'n Norfolk. Anything else I can do for 'yeh?" > "Altitude?" > "We read 6,500, with 29.78 on the barometer. About a thousand feet below freezing level." > "29.78. Thanks. Shall I contact launch control?" > "Ya' can if ye' want, but you're just 'gonna get me again. Still the night shift over here." > "Then I'm departing Hangar B." > "Good hunting, mate." >The radio pops off half way into a protracted yawn. >You hope he's not serious about the "hunting" part. >Hell, you're still on the East Coast. >Can't be too much attention here, right? >You don't have time to dwell on it, as Whitney hauls herself over the window frame and tumbles in beside you, tail catching you across the face in the process. She doesn't seem to notice though, and only hesitates as she works out where she's going to stuff the thing once she sits down. >Eventually she folds it around behind her and tucks it between the seat and the pillowed insulation along the right wall, but the narrow cabin still pinches you together at the shoulders. >Fortunately this isn't your first rodeo. > "Getting intimate", Steve called it, and between them, you know who you'd rather be intimate with. >That son of a bitch must have weighed well into two hundred pounds, and he wasn't nearly so fluffy as she was. Not to mention how much better your climb performance would be, given she couldn't have weighed much over a hundred herself. >You'd have thought she was used to it too, but one of her ears flicks bashfully nonetheless, and she makes a show of keeping her eyes on the panel while she fiddles with her belt. > "You, uh, you ain't allergic, are you cap'n?" >Your brain trips over itself. >You actually are allergic to dogs, come to think of it. >Does that mean you're allergic to anthros too? Just dog anthros? Hell if you know. >Either way, you have to admit the little bit of her weight on your shoulder is more welcome than you were expecting, particularly as warm, comfortable respite from the biting cold and icy metal surrounding you. >Something about it feels right. Certainly a lot more right than the weight of Steve's shoulder and respectable beer gut had. > "Nah, I don't think so." >She smiles and relaxes back into her seat. The weight on you builds up a little, no less welcome. >Taking the warmth for what it's worth, you fish out your startup checklist and get to work.

Battery? >Off. Magnetos? >Grounded. Mixture? >Cutoff. Throttle? >Idle. Fuel flow? >Both tanks.

>Pausing, you look back to Whitney. She catches on quickly. > "Crank start?" > "Yeah." >She nods, unfolding the canvas covering again and standing up in her seat. > "Also, probably ought to turn the radio off. Alternator output jumps on startup; fries 'em sometimes." > Shit, she's right. You left the radio switch on. You do as she says while she clambers up onto the wing, blunted claws scratching hollowly on the aluminum as if it were an oil drum. >You turn back to the engine controls, but she bows her head back into the cabin again. > "Listen, Cap'n, I want you to know I really appreciate you takin' me on like this. I know I'm probably a little greener than you were expecting, and I sure as hell ain't your kind. Maybe they didn't give you a whole lot of choice, but I ain't heard you complain about it either, and that means a lot to me. It's my first time really doin' this sort of thing; I'm sure they told 'ya. An' I don't look like much, but if you promise to set me straight when I screw up, I swear I'll give it hell and make sure it worth your while, alright? Anything you need from me, you holler." >She thrusts a paw back down toward you. You take it, feeling nice and warm inside again. > "Anything, huh?" >She shrugs. > "Well, I ain't 'gunna promise you won't have to teach me whatever it is, but I will promise I'll learn." >You shake firmly. > "You've got a deal, kid." > "Thanks, Cap'n." >She turns away again, face so bright you could swear she has an aura about her. You catch her hugging herself out of the corner of your eye, feet shuffling a bit of a jig on the wing root. Then comes the sound of the left starter winding. You drop a hand to the throttle knob and flip your checklist back open.

Mixture? >Rich. Throttle? >Open. Battery? >On. Primer? >Actually, it's shit. Better to stroke the throttle a few times and leave it a little shy of idle. Mixture? >Back to cutoff.

>You drop your other hand to the left magneto and wait for Whitney's call. Finally the cranking stops. > "Contaaaaact!" > "Contact!" >You flick the magneto just as the prop lurches into motion, the airframe shuddering and shimmying under the weight. >You advance the mixture steadily as it tumbles. It coughs once, then barks and clatters. >Come on, don't fuck this up in front of Whitney. Not after that speech she just gave you. Bump the throttle in a little, keep advancing the mix. >Bark, pop, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter. >Bark, clatter, belch, roar! >The prop slaps the air like a belt and settles into a deep, pulsing whir punctuated by the bang and tumble of the engine as it fires and misses. >Presently Whitney crosses overhead and onto the right wing. As she does you verify that her tail is in fact routed under and through the beltline of her trousers. >Of course, what you really should have been checking was the oil pressure. >Fortunately it's still under the green ark and building steadily. >You back the throttle out a little as she starts winding again. She's done by the time you finish priming the other engine. > "Kawn-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaact!" >You actually manage to hear her belt it over the racket. You draw all the breath you can to reply. > "Con-Tact!" >Magneto, throttle, mix. >The same song and dance. >You manage not to fuck it up, and as the second prop settles into a rhythmic thrum Whitney drops in beside you again, the white patches of her fur stained gray with carbon and smelling freshly of exhaust. >It's still just as soft when she brushes against you as she goes about closing the canvas up again. >You do your best to ignore it, and make a show out of waiting on the oil pressure gauges to edge into their green arcs while she settles and snaps herself back in, ears folded awkwardly against the noise. >She fiddles with wires a moment, then jams a probe into each of them and ducks into a metallic headband that presents her muzzle with a microphone. > "You read me, Cap'n?" >The intercom squelches the dimension out of most anyone's voice, but somehow you can still hear the eagerness and optimism in hers. > "I read you loud and clear, kid. You?" >"Loud 'n Clear! How's the weather?" >You rattle it off for her. > "Got a brief for me?" > "Know how to handle a radio?" > "Sure thing, Cap." > "Then I want you on that, and keepin' your eyes peeled for traffic 'n bogeys." > "Can do!" >Suddenly you think back to what the weather guy said. >Good Hunting. >You flinch, but do your best to sound nonchalant. > "Hey, Whitney?" > "Yeah?" > "You know how to shoot?" > "Rifles, yeah. Brother and I used to have contests back in the day; I always won." > "How about an M2 Browning?" >You indicate over your shoulder to the open-air turret behind the wing. She glances behind her and then back, eyebrow perhaps a little raised. You hear her hesitate. > "Uh, yeah; I think I can do that." > "Yeah, but can you?" >She nods, a little more confidently this time. > "I can do it." > "Good." >You glance around one last time, then edge the throttle forward. >The rumble of the props and engines smooth, and the wheels lurch into motion. With a tap of the toe you stop just shy of the launch bay. >The second you pull out there you'll be hit by the sixty knot winds tearing through the channel. >Turn to shallow, and you'll get pulled right around. Maybe the wind gets under the wing and flips you. >Too fast and you might blunder into the far wall. >But you've done this before. Once before. >Yoke back in your lap, so the elevator's pinning your tail into the ground. >Ailerons banked in the direction of the wind. >Hand steady on the throttle balls. >Now do it quick and smooth. >And whatever you do, don't fuck up. >You push the throttles in. The wheels bump over the threshold and the wind strikes the canopy with a turbulent rush. You feel yourself yaw away, and then back again as the wind starts to catch your vertical stabilizer. >Hard on the rudder! Advance the throttle! >The rudder swings around and comes into line, and immediately you feel the airplane rock up off one of the mains. Shit! Fix it with the aileron, and a little dose of rudder! >More throttle! Yoke forward! >You jam the vertical stabilizer up into the wind and things stabilize a little. For the moment you're treading water, stationary in the bay despite the howling wind and chugging engines, a bright patch of sky beckoning to you from the far threshold as you dance back and forth in the pedals. >You push the balls to the wall. The props slap and roar, and the hangar starts to edge by. >Then it rolls. >Then it races. >The sky rushes forth to meet you and the landing gear give one last jolt as you cross the threshold and fall away. >A sinking feeling churns in your gut as you claw for the last few knots you need to fly, wings shuddering with stall buffet and feet flailing on the rudder to keep the wings level. >Don't touch the aileron. >No matter how much you feel the wing dip, you stick to the rudder. >Touch the aileron and you'll spin. >Spin, and you'll die. >Just a few more knots. >It's over as quickly as it started, and then you're climbing away, coasting up the expanse of Echo's flank with the weathered silver skin so close you could almost run your hand along it. As your adrenaline recedes, you notice Whitney trailing off of a protracted cheer. >She's white-knuckling the handrail on her right and has her left paw pinned on your thigh, but she's grinning like a fucking psychotic. > "Anon, that was incredible!" > "Always is." >At least it was last time, and you doubt you're ever going to quite get used to doing that. >Finally you settle back again as you crest the dorsal structure and level out, watching the morning dew slide off the windows in lazy streaks and paying a quick wave to the upper observation dome as you drift by it.

>The fog is gone within the hour, and in its place the crisp autumn morning spreads like the pages of a children's book, sky sharp and clear save for tall billows of icy-looking cumulus so perfect and fluffy they almost seem painted. >The cold dulls behind the dry, desert air spouting from the heater manifolds, and as it wraps around you, you feel yourself relax the rest of the way. >Whitney settles against you, or maybe you settle against her, and the two of you watch the fields, forest, and coastline of North Carolina drift by as if you were watching a moving picture. >The farms glow gold with wheat, or green with corn and tobacco. >The waves gleam like jewels as the shallow morning light breaks over their crests, and the sand catches alight and shines with the intensity of the sun itself. >Deciduous forests paint the land in broad swatches of copper and honey. >Almost as if the world was build just for today. >Just to remind you why you were here, and why you'd bothered with any of it. >And probably why she was next to you. >You turn to her, finding the idiotic grin gone and a soft, happy smile in its place. > "Hey, kid?" > "Somethin' I can do for ya, cap'n?" >You shake your head. > "How long have you wanted to do this sort of thing?" >She snorts, kicking back a little further into the leather of the chair. > "Shit, I 'dunno. Forever? Grew up on an airstrip. Dad was a racer; guess sometimes he still is. Can't think of much any other way I could'a turned out. Don't see much point in thinkin' about it either, ya' know?" > "Yeah. Yeah, I get that. How long you been flying?". >Her eyes roll back a little and she taps a few calculations on her thigh. > "Uh, maybe twelve years? Give or take one? Depends on if you count dad's lap as flying proper; couldn't reach the pedals m'self. >Shit, that's more than twice as long as you. >Maybe she was a kid for most of it, but still. >You can't help a little jealousy, particularly at that last bit. You'd never even known your father, and only barely knew your mother. >Something had happened. You never could get anyone to give you the details, but whatever it was, it was grim business. Your uncle had raised you. >He was a good enough guy. Took care of you. Even tried to be a father sometimes. He didn't really have the money to support the both of you though, and certainly he hadn't the time. You felt like a leech taking what little he did have, and by the time you were ten you found yourself wishing he'd just go out in the evenings like he used to before he had you to deal with. >Eventually you'd told him that, and the both of you were probably better off for it, but in the end you'd really raised yourself on books, model airplanes, and the bb gun he scraped to get you for christmas that one year. >But hell, that'd gotten you here same as her, hadn't it? And she was calling you Captain. Now, so long as she doesn't ask.... > "What about you, Cap'n?" >Shit, that was too much to hope for, wasn't it? >Well, probably no use lying straight out. > "Five years." >She chuckles. > "Well I can't be that much greener 'n you, huh? Unless you're one of those guys who grabbed an airplane and jumped in blind, but you don't fly like it." > "Yeah, well so what if I ain't?" >She shrugs. > "Fair's fair, Cap'n. She's your ship, 'n you fly her just fine. I'm just some kid who got to fly a lot. I reckon I do that pretty good; doesn't mean I know my tail from a rattlesnake's ass doing much of anything else. Certainly not making any sort of money at it. I trust you." >You nod and settle in again, rolling into a shallow bank to bring you across Echo's flank again.

>As the morning wears on the beaches sprout kites like mustard weed and chains of iridescent motor cars take to the roads. >Here and there the green swath of an aerodrome drifts by, smart little aeroplanes flitting about it like songbirds >You and Whitney speak sporadically, sometimes by her initiation and sometimes by yours. >Evidently she likes a little cream in her coffee, and used to play baseball way back when. >Her brother runs a shrimp boat, and knows how to cook the fuckers just right too. >She's still a better shot than he is, though. >She thinks your country is beautiful, and your airplane too. >And maybe she is just a little homesick, but she'll get over it, you know? >You tell her a little yourself, too. >About the model airplanes and the bb gun, and that you like your coffee black. >About your uncle, though you pass it off like it's nothing. >How shrimp is a stupid fish, and inferior in every way to baked eel. >And you're not such a bad shot yourself, and maybe you'll have to show her how it's done sometime. >She doesn't stop calling you "Cap'n", and it doesn't stop giving you that warm feeling. >On the top of the fifth hour your shift is almost up, which is good because your fuel's getting there too, and you're about done with the cramp building in your leg.

>It's about noon now. The sun hangs high overhead and casts Echo into a two tone pattern of light and shade not unlike a shark's. >There's still a chill in the air, but the light through the windows has been gathering on your lap for hours now, and it's almost enough to make you sweat. >Even Whitney, as in her element as she's seemed the last few hours, has started inventing novel ways to stretch various muscles despite the confines of the cabin. >She glances over to you, whiskers drooping a little and eyes squinted against the glare. > "The shifts always this long?" > "They break it up a little more when they get out over the water, or in more dangerous areas. Keep more airplanes aloft too. Here though, yeah. Five hours, one at a time, mostly." >Eying the idyllic tidewater marshes passing beneath you, she cocks her head. > "Why do you figure they even bother with escorts around here? This is your home base; what could happen?" >You hadn't really questioned it. You shrug. > "Maybe it's just for practice, or they want to see how we'll work together or some shit." > "I heard we're dealing with some pretty exotic cargo, but I can't get shit from anyone about what. Think that might be why?" >You shake your head skeptically. > "A lot of fiction and falsehood circulates aboard an airship. Big fish stories, mostly. Some people swear they saw fucking air whales. I wouldn't take anything you hear in there as fact." > "They still haven't told us where we're going after Norfolk though. Don't you think that's a little odd?" > "I 'dunno. Maybe." > "But you don't think anything's really going to happen, right?" >There's actually some anxiety in her voice. You can tell she must have been thinking about it for awhile. It takes you back to that morning again. >Good hunting. >You dismiss the foreboding in your gut with a firm swallow and a shake of your head. > "Nah, Kid. We'll be fine. Most voyages they go the whole way without engaging anyone; it's just those aren't usually the ones you hear about." >She raises a nervous eyebrow. > "That what the browning's for? Nothing?" > "Better to be prepared if something does. You signed up to escort, same as me. What'd you think it was, a flying club?" > "Yeah, I know, it's just that it all seems so perfect. Like nothing could ever go wrong, you know? But then it gets quiet, and you start thinking about why you're really there. That it might really... happen. But I suppose if it does, it does, right? That's what we're here for. Kick the asses of any sorry motherfuckers stupid enough to come for Echo, right?" >Though she's forcing it, you can feel a little genuine bravado in the depths of her voice. > "Yeah. That's why we're here. And she may not look like much, but Echo's bristling with guns. Any chucklefucks come around, and we'll be competing for kills to paint on our hulls. > "Hah, yeah." > "Yeah." > "...can I ask you somethin' Cap'n?" >Your stomach tightens up a little. You don't really like to dwell on this kind of shit. > "Yeah?" > "You ever shoot someone down?" > "No." > "Ever been shot at?" > "Once." > "Yeah, well I ain't done either." > "First time for everything, ain't there?" > "Reckon so." >The grim interlude fades, and her smile comes back as you peel off and settle onto approach for the hangar, Echo looming overhead like a sky all her own and prodding you with jolts of wake turbulence. >You sigh a tired sort of sigh, realizing in the process that your sinuses in fact are a bit stopped up.