Silver Lining (Chapter 7)

Story by DecoFox on SoFurry

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#7 of Silver Lining

Greentext

Second Person Present

Novel-Length, by chapter.

WIP

You, a newly minted combat pilot with all the associated buckle and swash, find yourself signed up to escort an airship carrying mysterious cargo to places unknown. It feels good to be the real deal finally, just like in the books and moving pictures, even if they did assign you a border collie for a partner. And besides, the two of you aren't in over your heads or anything, right?


Chapter VII, Mountain Dew

> "Uh, Cap'n?" >You wake slowly, your mind's eye stumbling over the last few images of a pleasant dream. >Where the fuck were you again? >In bed, yeah, but something's different. >Your nose is stuffed. So goddamn stuffed that you're breathing through your mouth. >You're looking at the wrong wall, too. The one with all the posters. >That's supposed to be on the other side of the-- > "You okay there, Cap'n?" >Oh, shit. >You remember all at once. >Shit. Shit. Shit. You'd fallen asleep, hadn't you? No wonder you were so fucking comfortable. What's happening? Is she pissed? > "Look, Anon, this is real cute 'n all, but I need you to let go of me so I can go pre-flight." >She shifts, and you notice you're embracing her rather tightly about the waist. Waves of panic and embarrassment break over you in series; fortunately she's looking the other way. > "Aaaaanon...." > "Yeah. Uh, Sorry." >Hastily you release your grip and tuck your arm beside you. >Whitney yawns, flops onto her back, and then tosses the blanket away. A crisp, dry draft flows in and startles the last of the sleep from your head. > "Mornin', by the way," she offers, smacking her lips a little as she buttons the oil-stained shirt and slips her sheepskin jacket over a shoulder. >You can't help groaning a little as she steps out of the light and the glare from the window finds its way directly into your eyes. > "Mornin' Whitney." >She flashes a smile as you sit up. > "Take your time, Cap'n. I'll see you on the flightline." >Before you can reply she mocks a salute and dodges through the door, tail whipping around the corner behind her like a kite's. >Damn, she seems chipper. You'd done a once-over for holes in the facade, but she actually seems genuine. >You cast off the rest of the tacky quilt and ease onto your feet, stretching your back for all it's worth and clearing your nose a little. >The air bites you a little less as you acclimate, and less again as you rub your eyes and pull your jeans on. Even the metal floor isn't terribly cold under foot. >...maybe today won't be so bad. You are underway now, and Whitney's spirits are rubbing off on you a little. You still don't know what the fuck's going on, but at least it's starting to seem like you're on the right side of it. >Besides, it was awful nice of her to get the airplane ready for you. There was nothing in the contract that said she had to do that. She was your partner, free and clear; you even made the same money. It did make you feel pretty captain-ey though, watching her scurry off like that. You can't help wondering if that was why she'd done it.

>The sun shines brightly in the porthole, and from behind the glass a clear, blue sky beckons you eagerly. You can't help smiling a little to yourself as you lace your boots. >It really could be a good day, couldn't it? >Surely they happened at least occasionally, and you reckoned you'd already earned one. Maybe you'd even get some answers. >You shoulder your jacket and fish a few sticks of jerky from your bag, then stop a little short of leaving. >Whitney really didn't need to play servant to you. It'd felt pretty good, but you do feel a little guilty that you're the one taking it easy after how tough last night must've been on her. You really ought to return the favor. >You've never been much of a cook, but you throw a few slices of some of the nicer lunchmeat you brought along from home between some stale-ish bread and call it a sandwich. >Better than nothing. Besides, you've got another idea. An idea your aching ribs are quick to get behind. >You jam a stick of jerky between your teeth like a cigar and strike out.

>Hangar B is busier today. No fewer than four airplanes are staging, fuselages shimmering gaily in the shady mid-morning light that streams in through the rear hangar door. A stiff but fragrant breeze howls down the runway and stirs the peaty smells of appalachia in with the sweet and sour flavors of fuel and oil. >It's a cold breeze, but a dry one, and it rolls harmlessly past your jacket without doing much more than stirring up the fleece. >Whitney, who's leaning against your airplane and exchanging some sort of banter with Tucker "Whirligig" Riley, grins when she sees you. >It might be confirmation bias, but you're pretty sure there's a little shimmy in her tail too. >She shoves off of the fuselage and turns as you approach. > "You're late," she mocks, "Three minutes. Tsk tsk." >You muster a chuckle and lean casually beside her, then glance over once you're pretty sure the other pilot's out of earshot. You pat her on the shoulder. > "You, uh, you feelin' better, Kid?" >Her smile flattens and one of her ears twitches a little, but she gives you a firm, shallow nod. > "I'm okay; thanks for askin'. Don't really want to think about it right now, if'n 'ya don't mind." > "Understood." >You follow up the shoulder pat with another one and present her with the sandwich. Her grin snaps back. > "For me? Aww, thanks!" >She doesn't waste any time wolfing it down. When she's finished, she pats the engine cowling with a paw. > "We're lookin' ship-shape here. One of the cowl screws was loose and the windows needed a little cleanin', but I took care of that." > "Ready to head out, then?" >She smirks sheepishly. > "I could use a little help loading the Ma Deuce. Any luck and we won't need it, but it pays to be careful." > "Thought you were a pro or something." >She shrugs. > "Ain't fired belt-fed. Sue me." > "Then I'll show you before we start up. Anything else?" >She shakes her head. > "I've got the right tie-down if you've got the left." >You shoot her an encouraging look that she doesn't seem to know what to do with. > "Know what? My fucking chest still hurts like a motherfucker. You take the left chain." >She furrows her brow as she considers what you mean, then her face lights up, and a cheshire cat grin spreads down the length of her muzzle, teeth bearing generously. > "I was hoping you'd say that; You won't be disappointed! I promise!" > "Reckon I won't be. She's your ship today; just let me know what you'd like from me, Captain Latham." >You take care to put some extra emphasis on that last pair of words. Whitney beams wildly, and then in the second you look away to switch sides you find yourself seized in a short but firm embrace. >Pain shoots through your body, but you stifle a yelp and do your best to focus on her touch instead. > "You're the best, Cap'n." > "Sure," you squeak.

>You could swear the airplane is even smaller from the right seat. It takes a little doing to find a place for your right arm, especially since you're going to have to work the yoke with it, but with a little determination you get your seat position set in the space of a few minutes. >Whitney takes her time fiddling with the height adjustment crank, though, so you try to get used to this whole right seat thing. >You've never actually flown right seat before, and so far you don't like it. >Gone is your nice, big-gauge layout, replaced by a bulky radio stack, more fuses than you care to count, and a smattering of auxiliary readouts scarcely bigger than silver dollars. >It would be tight enough that you could use her gauges, only some genius at Eastern - Aerodyne had thought it would be a good idea for their needles to sit a full goddamn centimeter off of the gauge face, and so the parallax is so bad they're practically useless. >You really are going to have to trust her with this thing, aren't you? >The reality of that sinks in more and more while she clicks her way through start-up, making generous use checklist taped to the window and brushing you periodically with her shoulder when she reaches for things. >Come on, she's got more stick-time than you do. Relax. >Maybe you would if you could at least read the goddamn airspeed indicator. As it was, you felt more like you were strapping into a rollercoaster than an airplane. >But today's going to be a good day, right? >You muster a grin as she finishes with the electrical system. > "Got a brief for me, Captain Latham?" >Part of you had been hoping to catch her off guard the way Ol' Steve always tried to catch you, but she doesn't even bother looking up from the checklist. > "We're over western Kentucky. Echo wants us on the outer perimeter and keeping an eye out for anyone who looks like they might be scoping us out. The rest of the lot are staying at her flanks in case we miss anything. Skies clear. Temperature's at fifteen centigrade, dew point seven. Two-niner, niner-four on the barometer. Weather deck's saying we've got some moderate chop, but I reckon we're too heavy to be bothered much. >The part of you that had been hoping for more of sheepish Whitney tingles with disappointment, but you do feel a little better knowing she's on top of things. You're less sure you like the whole scouting-ahead thing, though. > "Sounds like a nice way to say we're a wild weasel," you sigh, your good-day hope dwindling a little, "You nervous?" >Whitney shrugs. > "Thought you guys had things pretty nailed down out through Kansas at least. Should I be?" >You answer her shrug with your own. > "Ain't ever been out this far west. Reckon we'll just have to be careful." > "You ain't ever been in a dogfight before, have you, Cap'n?" >A shiver runs down your spine. You dig up as much confidence as you can find and dump it into your voice. > "I've practiced some maneuvers. I know how in theory, but--" >To your surprise, that of grin of hers comes back as strong as ever. > "Well, you're in luck." > "Huh?" > "Because I have." >She grins so goddamn wide you'd have sworn she was yawning if it weren't for the expectant gleam in her eye. > "You fucking serious?" > "Technically!" >You can't decide if you wish she'd drop that shit-eating grin. It's almost enough for your ego to wish for somber Whitney again, but there's definitely something intoxicating about this version. >It's that everything-is-possible feeling, like the first dip in the river after the ice melts, or the first bolt of a new project. >Like the first airplane you ever saw fly. >You forgot how fucking good that feeling was. Better than goddamn sex. > "Technically?" > "Technically. Now how's about cranking engine one for me?" > You can't think of anything to say, so you nod, pull the leather back, haul yourself up onto the wing, and set to cranking.

> "Contact!" > "Kaun-tacht!" >Another shiver works its way down your spine as you drop the starter, but it's warmer this time. >There's just something about the way she shouts that call, something so familiar. Somehow it sounds like Spring. >And the engine jolts and churns and sputters. >Then it roars a second, >Then it clatters. >Then it misses. And clatters, and misses. And clatters, and misses. >And stops. You're going to have to crank this fucker again. Dammit. >Whitney peeks up over the leather, looking sheepish again afterall. > "Son of a bitch flooded." > "It's a bit temperamental. Fuck the checklist; try starting with the mix at cutoff and advance while it's cranking. Be quick about it, though." > "Quick. Gotcha." >You start cranking again.

> "Contact!" > "Kahn-takt!" >Jolt, churn. >Jolt, churn. >Bark, clatter, roar. >The prop wash works its way straight under your collar even as you flip it up. You suppress a shiver and scuttle to the other wing.

>Crank. > "Contact!" > "Kahntakt!" >Jolt, churn, bark, clatter, roar. >She's looking confident as ever by the time you climb back in again. >Any hesitation she had was gone with the churning of the prop wash, and it's almost as if she were never nervous at all. >She's got the yoke seized in one paw and the throttles in the other, her eyes locked on the engine gauges. An air of cool confidence settles into her fur, smoothing out the tufts, pricking her ears, and leaving her tail slacked beside her. >You can't help feeling the tiniest splash of envy seeing her so collected; fortunately she gives a little before too long. > "Hey Anon?" >Somehow her voice is just as rich over the headset intercom. > "What do 'ya need, Captain Latham." >She rolls her eyes conspicuously. > "For you to quit that, for one. Reckon you wouldn't know, but you're making me blush every time you pull that shit. Call me Whitney. call me Kid, whatever. But, you keep callin' me Captain, it's going to go to my head." > "And what else?" > "V-speeds?" > "Ninety knots for best angle of climb, One-twenty for best rate. Stall at sixty-six, and one-thirty-two maneuvering." > "Anything else I should know?" > "She processes pretty bad when you pull her tail off the ground, so be ready on the rudder." >Whitney nods dutifully. > "Gotcha." > "And keep an eye on the manifold pressure. Back the throttles out once we're free and climbing." > "Wilco." > "Ever launch from an airship before?" > "Nope! Reckon I come in shallow, make a quick job of lining up, and make sure I don't let the wind get under the wings, yeah?" > "That's about it." > "You'll catch me if I fuck up, right?" > "As best I can. Ain't like I'm an expert." >Her tail twitches once at that, but she stills it again. > "Yeah? Well let's see if Papa was bullshitting me when he said I was a natural, then, huh?" >She edges the throttles forward. You grab your seat frame for all you're worth and wave nervously to Tucker "Whirligig" Riley as he saddles up his smart little biplane. >Flank escort. That fucker's got an easy day ahead of him. >You suppose this is what you get for showing up with an airplane with some range to it.

>Whitney taps the brakes and you jerk to a stop just shy of the runway, the first of the wind noise licking at the canopy glass like seafoam. >She glances over at you, confidence eroding a little further. > "Hell of a headwind, huh Anon?" > "That's the idea." > "Alright. So I've got the yoke turned 'round so the ailerons hold the upwind wing down. I'm going to ease the throttles in, pin the tail as hard as I can, kick it around, then lift the tail up as I finish coming on with the power. Makes sense to me. That's what you did, right?" > "That's it." >She mimes the throttle movement, kicks at the rudder, and works the elevator. >And then again, mouthing the steps to herself. >And again. >She swallows and sighs. > "You want to at least, you know, follow me on the controls?" >You set a finger on the yoke and get your feet ready to kick the rudder, though frankly you doubt you'd know any better what to do with it than she would. > "Alright. She's all yours though, got it?" > "Got it," she barks, smoothing out a patch of fur, "I can do it." >And then the sleepy rumble of the engines trips and bursts into a roar.

>The airframe dances as the wings bite the wind and the tail comes around so fast that your head knocks against the window pane. >But then she's straight and stomping on the rudder, >and then tail comes up and the walls crawl by, and then roll by, and flash away behind you. >The wheels thump over the threshold and that sick sinking feeling pours into your gut as the nose drops, rolling hills spreading wide and green out in front of you. >Suddenly fifteen hundred feet is very close, seventy knots very fast, and the back of your mind remembers that it doesn't like heights so much. >But then you're level, and then clawing your way into a climb, the air fresh, clear, and firm under your wings.

>Whitney trails off of a deranged howl and gasps for air. > "Holy shit! I think that might be my absolute favorite thing I've ever done!" >Her teeth shine like ivory in the sun glare on the canopy, her eyes and whiskers bright and laughing. >Her throttle paw shoots down and squeezes your hand so hard you swear she's going to break it. > "The way the world just spreads out before you like that? The way you jump off and there ain't nothin' to catch you but the horizon? Fuck me, Cap'n; I ain't ever felt so free!" >You try to return some of the squeeze, but you can't get a whole lot of leverage the way she's got you pinned. > "You did good, Whitney." > "Good? I didn't even shimmy! It was right down the middle, through and through!" >She hangs as she finishes the last word, almost as if you'd caught her stealing table scraps. > "I ought to shut the fuck up before I brag myself into an early grave, huh?" >You nod, trying not to look too pedantic. > "Like my instructor always told me...," > "...there are no old, bold pilots," you finish together. >Her manic grin tames, those big-ass ivory canines sheathing slowly behind her gums. > "You human lot say that too, huh?" >You shrug. > "My instructor did. Don't know where he got it." >Whitney leans back in her seat and glances over to you as the vertical speed indicator settles down. > "Okay," she yips, "My turn. The most useless things are:...." > "The altitude above you, the runway behind you, and a quarter second ago." >She matches your shrug. > "We always said 'tenth-of-a-second' and added 'the air in your fuel tank', but I guess something makes it across the water, huh?"

>You're pretty sure she levels out at 3,500 feet, but it's difficult to say. You'd never set the barometer on your little backup altimeter, and aren't in a hurry to admit you forgot. >Last night's rain is long gone, and the sky spreads so stark and empty before you that you have to strain to see the horizon. A fresh, cool breeze churns through the cabin vents and stirs the air, it washing so clean it actually keeps your nose from stuffing. >Echo's falling away now. The yawning hulk of her envelope shrinks until she looks like a sleek, silver toy. Out the left window she dangles as if from fishing line, bobbing with the shivers of turbulence that brush across your wings. >And then you break off, leaving her to slide from the window to your seven o'clock. >Then it's just the two of you, alone with the throb of the engines.

>Time wears on awhile, the sky clear and empty, and the cabin silent. >The sun is just a little off your six o'clock, but by the top of the second hour it's high enough to leak in through the eyebrow windows. It casts bright patches of light across the glare-guard and cooks the leather until you can smell the oils. >It's a strange smell: half sweet, half bitter and rotting. You've never been able to put your finger on whether or not you like it. >Eventually you catch yourself skirting the edge of a half-formed dream and jolt back to reality. >Whitney unzips her jacket and spreads the lapels out to her shoulders. Then she pays you an understanding glance. > "Don't worry, Cap'n, you didn't miss anything. There ain't shit, not for miles." >You shift and press your face against your window, looking back as far along the tail as you can. >You can certainly see what she means. There's nothing to see but forest and little plots of farmland, and no one to share the sky with save for the handfuls of little black birds that flit about the trees below you. > "Where's Echo?" > "Reckon about a hundred miles East by North East, assuming they haven't changed speed or direction. I could give you a better bearing, but I'd have to do a little math." >You shake your head and rub your eyes, surprised to find a little sleep in them. > "Hundred miles, huh, even with them following us? Didn't realize I actually fell asleep; how long was I out?" > "About forty-five minutes. And that's a hundred miles, give or take fifteen or so. I haven't been in contact for a good half-hour, so that's extrapolated from a pretty old measurement. They asked us to keep quiet unless we found something. Just in case anyone was listening in, you know?" > "Yeah." >Suddenly you remember something that makes you wince. > "Hey, they didn't ask where I was, did they?" >She smiles deviously. > "That weather guy did. I told 'em you were messing with the radio equipment in the back." > "Thanks, Kid." > "What, you think I was going to sell you out?" > "Well, you could'a woken me. I didn't think we'd see anything nearby either, but they are payin' me for this job same as you. It was nice of you getting the airplane ready, but we're partners proper. You ain't my servant, and I ain't a worthless sack 'a shit." > "Yeah, well..," >She cocks her head, hesitating. > "...you were kinda' cute laying there, and it feels good to have a passenger fall asleep while you're flying, especially bumping around the way we were. Besides, I reckon it's my fault for keeping us up so late last night." >There's actually some regret in her voice. >Shit, was that what this was about? >A little bit of guilt sinks into your hand and it flops down onto her paw again. > "Hey, don't worry about it, okay? Just glad you're doing better." >She stifles a yawn herself, stroking the yoke with her paw. > "I'm flyin'. I'm always better flyin'. Can't get cornered. Can't get locked in. No matter what happens, you ain't ever helpless. Don't know about you, but that goes a long way for me. Certainly helps that everything's so damn pretty all the time."

>Somehow she's still smiling, even as the miles drift by toward the Kentucky border. >Toward the Western border of the Eastern Union proper, and out into her wilder territories. >You grimace a little. > "I'd like it better if we weren't a goddamn weasel." >Whitney grips a little tighter at the yoke. > "We're about to cross the border, ain't we? This river?" >The meandering strip of brown-blue water that's been in advancing from the middle-distance slides under the nose and out of sight. > "Yeah. That's it. We're in Louisiana territory now." > "I mean, it can't really be that bad, right? No one would build farms anywhere near the border." > "I 'dunno, but I've heard reports of pirates further East than this, and we got attacked in our own damn port. You said you'd been in a dogfight before; you, uh, want to tell me about that?" >Her spirits falter, but she clings to them. > "Ribbon games. You hitch a paper streamer to the airplane and chase each other, and the streamer breaks real easy if anyone touches it. Team with the longest streamers at the end wins the day. I was in a league, actually. We weren't the best ever, but we did alright for ourselves." > "Sounds dangerous as shit." > "Oh, absolutely. Dad hated it, but he was a racer, so he couldn't really say anything. I scared him real good a couple of times; bet it really put things into perspective when I told him I was going to go do this." > "Got any stories?" >Her laugh crackles flatly over the intercom. > "Oh boy, do I. Let's see--." >She stops dead. The color drains from her voice, leaving it flat and serious. > "Contact, one o'clock low."

>Your heart sinks into your gut and your nerves electrify. >Holy shit, this might actually be it. This might really be fucking happening. >You're the real deal, and you might be about to do the real thing. >You can do this. >You hunt the horizon between twelve and two, suddenly very glad you aren't alone. Then there's something soft in your hand, and you realize you're squeezing Whitney's paw again. > " One-thirty, moving oblique. You see 'em, Anon?" >You hunt harder, and then a little frantically. The sky still looks empty. > "Two o'clock, moving to three." >There's some urgency in Whitney's voice now. She pulls her paw free and points a nail through the window. > "Three-thirty. What'da we do, Cap'n?" >Then you see it: a spot of canopy glint against the rolling green and the faint silhouette of wings stealing over the forest. >Camouflage. Not even flat green, but proper goddamn camouflage. Adrenaline leaks down the back of your neck like a melting ice cube. >Has he seen you? >You don't think so. He's holding course, and now you're behind his eyebrow windows. >Of course, it could be a trap. >But you suppose you're here to find out. > "Should I get on his six? We're 'gonna lose him in a sec. Give me somethin' Cap'n. Please." >You swallow the lump building in your throat. > "Do it. Let's see where he goes." >Whitney rolls into a steep bank and that sinking feeling comes back as she lets the nose slide down. Your altimeter unwinds swiftly, popping your ears as you cross the two thousand foot mark. > "Reckon we ought to get under him, Cap'n? We could see him a lot better against the sky, and he wouldn't see us even if he's got mirrors." >The lump comes back while you consider that. She's right, but he looks mighty low to you, probably to keep someone from doing just that. You'll be real close to the trees. > "I can do it, Cap'n. The way he's headed, there's a decent chance he finds Echo. We can't afford to lose him, and I ain't keen on letting him know we're here." >Neither are you. >She starts to shallow her spiral, but you shake your head. > "You're right. Do it. And let me know if you want to trade." >She smirks a little as she pushes the dive back in. > "What, turn it over to you as soon as the fun starts?" >You doubt she's being completely genuine, but you'd be lying to claim it wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to hear right then. >A little geforce tugs at you as she pulls out of the dive, fresh speed sending you skimming out over the trees and up your target's six o'clock, the leaves so close you can see them dancing in the wind. >It must be at least a hundred feet, but as you settle into a valley you'll be damned if it doesn't feel like you could lean out the window and drag your finger through them. > "You know we're fucked if we lose an engine right now, right?" >Whitney nods grimly. > "Reckon we are."

>You've been shadowing for nearly an hour now, and your target's white belly still dangles steadily in your eyebrow windows. >Whitney carves through the valleys with a slow, easy grace that's difficult not to trust, and after awhile you'd turned away from the greenery whipping by outside and settled to scanning the radio. >So far there's been nothing to hear save a Kentucky AM station that peeked through the static maybe twenty minutes ago. >You're almost starting to doubt your assumptions. This guy hasn't been flying any kind of a search pattern. He could be anyone; camouflage would go just as far hiding from pirates as it would being one. >But you've plotted Echo's course a few times now yourself. Seventy miles, give or take a few. And definitely closing fast. >Much further, and he'll be in visual range. > You can't shake the feeling he knows exactly what he's looking for, and has at least some idea of where to find it. >You're going to have to find out one way or the other pretty goddamn soon. > "Hey, Whitney." > "Was'up?" >She doesn't so much as flick a whisker when she speaks, eyes flashing periodically between the valley and your target with sharp, mechanical focus. > "We're going to be in visual range inside twenty minutes. We're going to have to deal with this." > "I know." >This time there's no mistaking the mounting uncertainty in her voice. You wish you had a plan to reassure her with, but so far you haven't come up with much. There's no telling what he's going to do once he knows you're there. Part of you wants to stay on his six and wait for him to try to call someone with Echo's location, but it wouldn't be hard to miss the call, and there was no saying if you could down him in time even if you caught it. >You decide to give her the best you've got. > "I've been thinking we could try to bait him. We could break off and climb, then fly out ahead like we never saw him. Maybe draw him off far enough." >Whitney bites her lip. > "We'd have to turn our backs to him. And then we've still got to make our way back to Echo." > "Yeah, but we've probably got more fuel to burn than he does. We could also just call up Echo and tell them what's up, but then, if this isn't on the up and up, we've almost certainly got a fight on our hands. It's your call, Captain Latham." > "My call? Is this some kind of test, Anon? Because I'm thinkin' now ain't the time." >You shake your head eagerly. > "I just don't want to make it alone." >She curses under her breath. > "Yeah. We're supposed to look out for Echo, and I didn't come out here to do half a job. Let's fucking do it. Reckon I better get on the gun, huh?" >You stop just short of agreeing, though it takes you a second to remember why. >She's got the stick time on you, and the ribbon games.... > "You good on a mounted gun?" >She shrugs. > "I'm good with a regular gun. It'll have to do." > "I mean, I could--" > "No." >Her voice is stern and convicted, and you can't help being taken a little aback. Your spine electrifies all over again. You hadn't realized it, but you must have been hoping she'd say yes. Maybe you'd even assumed she would. >But you're not getting out of this, are you? >A strange, numbing fear spreads through your face and hands as if the capillaries in them were icing over. >But you'd signed up for this, And what the fuck kind of a partner would you be to throw her to the sharks? It's your airplane, like she said. What about that guy you're supposed to be? What happened to him? You ain't a coward, right? You hadn't thought so. > "Anon, I don't know this airplane like you do. I don't speak her language yet. I don't know what she feels like when she's about to stall; I don't know how much creaking in her wings is too much; I don't even know if she has fucking aerobatic carbs. I appreciate your faith, but it's not a good idea. Trade with me." >You put on your best brave face and suppress an uneven sigh. You can do this. It wouldn't be right to make her, and she's right. But shit, she at least has some idea of what she's doing; the most aerobatic thing you've ever done is fucking spin training. > "You sure?" >Her muzzle twists into a grim half-snarl. > "You made me captain today, and I'm telling you to fucking trade. >You nod, and she softens a little. >You'd done your best to look like you were just being practical. She must have seen right through you though, because she sets a paw on your shoulder. > "You're 'gonna do fine, Cap'n. I'm not going to let him crawl up your six; I promise. We're going to be okay." >The radio smooths out any uncertainty in her voice, but you can't help noticing that reassuring paw of hers is shaking pretty bad. > "We're going to be okay...," she breathes again, shutting her eyes. >You get the impression she didn't mean for that second one to transmit. >Then she goes so quiet you could swear you can hear your ears ringing over the engines.

>Frustration joins the anxiety in your blood, or maybe it's disgust. >Fucking really? >You've got nothing to say? She needs you; you did enough damage hesitating the way you did! >Come on, you've got to give her something! >You've got to be who you're supposed to be. >But then the radio pops as she pulls her headset jacks, and it's too late. >You turn to squeeze that shaking paw instead, but she's already hauling herself through the aft bulkhead. > "Godspeed, Cap'n," she shouts over the engine roar as her tail slips out of sight. > "Good luck, Whitney," you call, but there's no chance in hell she could have heard you.

>So you slide your way back into the left seat and wrap your hand around the yoke, index finger settling onto the transmit button, and middle cuddling up to the trigger guard. >No more than a week ago that little cockpit was your whole life, but for some reason it feels awfully cavernous without her pinned awkwardly against you. >Lonely cold leaks back in through the windows and warrens, and you zip your jacket the rest of the way. Fifteen long, rusty seconds creak by, your stomach souring with each. Finally the radio pops again and comes alive with a flutter of wind noise. > "I'm in position, Cap'n. Tailgun's hot." >She pauses, and even over the radio you can make out a little bit of a whimper. > "Hard to believe this is real, ya' know? Some days my Ribbon team and I really cleaned up. Fuck, it felt like we were invincible. But this ain't 'gonna be like that, is it?" > "I don't know, Whitney." > "Yeah. Trouble is, I'm pretty sure I do." >The radio clicks out with a hollow pop. >It's time. >You advance the throttles, take a deep breath, and steady your voice. > "Echo in the blind, Squawking Bird. Contact on my position. Fifty miles west by southwest, closing. Intentions unknown. I'm going to try to draw him off." >Any luck and your camouflaged friend wasn't monitoring the right frequency to catch what you said, but there's a good chance he still knows you transmitted something, and that means he knows you're there. >And now he's sliding by. >Whatever's coming, it's on now. >You flip up the trigger guard, just in case. >And then down again, and back up. >And again. >Fuck, Whitney isn't kidding. >Not a one of them feels real.