Silver Lining (Chapter 8)
#8 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 VIII, Fight's On
2.
>You're out ahead now.
>He hasn't shot you yet, which you suppose is probably best, but you're already starting to wish he would.
>Trouble is, now you can't see him. You can't see anything, or know anything Whitney doesn't tell you. The tension is so thick it seems to make the propellers chug, and you can't do a damn thing but wait.
>But her gun hasn't started barking either.
>So the seconds tick by, sky clear before you and engines rattling in your ears over the thud of your heartbeat.
>And on the thirtieth second, you ease into a shallow, climbing turn.
>He'll either follow or he won't. You can't decide which you'd rather.
10.
> "Got eyes, Whitney?"
> "Seven o'clock high! Nothing yet!"
>It takes you a moment to pick the words from the wreckage of her wind-mangled voice, but you manage.
> "Keep me posted, Kid."
> "Wilco, Cap'n!"
>She goes quiet, but the transmission stays open. Wind tears over the circuit, growling and gnashing in your ears like some sort of scavenger.
> "Captain? Captain, he's turning. He's following us."
> "Good. Keep an eye on him."
>It is good, right? It was your plan, wasn't it? And it was working.
>But what about the way her voice trembled just then? Or the way your hand shakes on the yoke?
>If he's taking the bait, why does it feel so goddamn wrong?
>You wedge the throttles another quarter inch into their stops. The manifold pressure needles leap like crickets, and the engines churn just a little harder. Another knot fights its way onto the indicator.
23.
>A minute passes, and then five more.
>There's nothing but the rattle of engines and the whistle of air around the windows;
>Nothing but a bright, beckoning horizon.
>It's almost like he isn't even there.
>Like he's not back there watching you dangle in his gunsight like a fucking christmas ornament.
>It's almost like you could forget;
>Like it could be like any other day, or even a good one, like you said it would be.
>All you have to do is pretend. He'll see there's no airship. He'll break off. It'll be like nothing ever happened.
>But then there's the radio.
33.
> "Captain?"
> "What is it, Kid?"
>She holds the key again, the wind folding and tearing around her.
> "He's gaining, Captain. It's slow, but he's gaining."
>There's no mistaking the fear in her voice; it drips from the trailing syllables like rotten milk.
> "Captain?"
> "What?"
>You spit the word like a broken tooth.
> "If, uh, if something happens to me, you'll tell my father what happened, won't you?"
>Another mound of dread drops onto your shoulders and buries you a little deeper. You feel it crushing your lungs when you gasp for air.
> "Whitney--"
> "But just the good parts, yeah? Like, if I scream, you can leave that out, ya' know?"
> "Just shut up! Okay?"
>A quiet second drips by.
> "Okay, Captain. I, uh, I've got your six. I promise."
>The radio goes dead, and probably your heart too.
>The strange emotions flooding your mind dry up all at once, and then there's nothing.
>Just a numb, tepid sort of terror that seeps through your veins like mercury.
52.
>Ten minutes.
>If Whitney's numbers are good, Echo is somewhere at your 4:30, moving perpendicular.
>You haven't taken a breath in as long as you can remember, and somewhere deep in your chest your heart twitches and seizes on your blood as if it were drowning in it.
>You suppose this is what it means to be afraid.
57.
>You wouldn't have to go to war, your uncle had said. Indeed, you hadn't had to.
>But somehow, here you were anyway.
>Because you were the real deal, or something.
>Yeah.
>But you can do this. You're not pretending, no matter how much it feels like you are.
>It's working. He took the bait. You're just flying an airplane. It's like any other day. A good one, even. Just don't panic. Everything will be fine if you just don't panic.
>You've drawn him off of Echo. You're a hero. For the first time in your life you've done something real and valuable! The whole hangar will pat you on the back and buy you drinks. You'll help Whitney out of the gun like a proper fucking gentleman and hold her hand until the latent fear drains from her voice, and you, it'll be like you were never scared at all.
>It'll be okay.
>You'll be that guy you're supposed to be.
>It's just a matter of--
68.
> "Captain! New bogey! Seven o'clock, high! Same paint! He's diving; I--, I think he's--"
>Suddenly the bark of the Browning shatters that little world of yours like so much fine china. The blood flash-freezes in your veins, and for a long, sick second, there's no actual fear at all.
>It's just you and the airplane.
>She dances to the beat of the bolt as it cycles. You can feel it in the rudder; you can feel it in your spine.
>It thuds and clacks over the roar of the engines in somber, angry notes.
>There's something on the radio, too. A sort of yell.
>You'd like to think it's a battle cry, but there are tracers outside now. They swarm past the windows like fireflies.
>Something strikes the airplane, and then something else, and three more after. They snap like whips against the metal and carve awkward, fleshy channels from the wood and fabric. The airplane shivers and yelps beneath you, and suddenly you're sure that yell was a scream.
>And you should do something. You have to do something! What would Ol' Steve have done? What about the man on the silver screen?
>You had thought that, in the heat of the moment, you'd know, but you didn't, and the tracers only come faster and brighter and thicker. He's diving on you. You swear you can almost hear his engine.
>And what about her?
>The last notes of that scream are ringing in your ears, but the yoke still shivers with the chatter of the Browning.
>You jam the elevator down, and your assailant blows past you, guns chittering like rabbits' teeth.
82.
>The engines cough, but then they bark and roar again, and then they start scream.
>The air tears at the wings and windows with a sound like a banshee's howl. The altimeter spirals in dizzying loops. Your stomach is probably playing your ribcage like a fucking xylophone, but frankly you can't feel it anymore.
>He's out ahead of you of you now, and hauling ass as he pries his way out of the dive.
>You're losing him fast, but a fine, white mist spouts like a cataract from his starboard wing.
>It's funny. It's not even you who shot him, but you can already feel another instinct taking over.
>An angry, predatory instinct.
>You haul on the yoke, and the bones in your spine slam back together. Air spills from your lungs as the muscles in your chest bunch around them, and the whole of your mind and body seems to strain and creak like a deck plank.
>But he's slower across the window now, and then he's sliding the other way.
>Sliding into your gunsight as if it were a pitcher plant.
>So you pull, and pull harder as you come level again.
>Harder, even as the airframe creaks and the wind jerks and buffets over the wings.
>Almost there. Another inch. Just enough to lead him. How much do you have to lead anyway?
>At this range it can't be much.
>The inch creeps its way in, and you pounce.
>Your wings come to life like firecrackers and the airplane shivers flatly.
>Your tracers leap gaily into the air, but they're short, so you pull a little harder.
>Harder, even as your airspeed starts to drain.
>And somewhere the Browning sets to thudding again, but you can scarcely hear it over the crackle of the main guns.
>The wings skip like rocks on the faltering wind. The tips strain to fall and dig but you hold them steady with a dance on the rudder.
>The tracers nip at his horizontal stabilizer. Just another half a degree....
>But then he breaks.
>He rolls right and peels off toward the horizon again.
>You ease the elevator and go for the rudder, but he's got a lead on you. You've got to catch him, and that means you've got to pull, so you pull.
>The wings strain and skip again, but it's just a little further!
>You balance them on the rudder like a pencil on your finger and ease another degree onto the elevator, but then the starboard wing falls.
>It catches the air like an anchor and drags the tail around, and now you're upside down and you can feel the rudder sliding further and further away.
> The trees twist sickeningly beneath you, but then it's out with the throttle and stomp on the rudder! At least this you know how to do!
>But the nose comes around again, and then again after that.
>You can feel him getting away, even as you reign the yaw and force the nose down.
>The spinning stops. You catch your breath and dive for airspeed, your target sailing away and up into the eyebrow windows.
113.
> "Did 'ja get 'em?"
>She's gasping like a landed fish, but that voice is about the sweetest thing you've ever heard. You blow a sigh of relief as you drag the nose back to the horizon.
> "You okay, Kid?"
> "Think so, Cap'n. He tore us up a little, but I ain't hit. You?"
>You glance around for bullet holes and swab your chest to make sure that warm, wet feeling is sweat and not blood.
> "I'm okay, Kid."
> "Yeah, well I'm pretty sure I tagged him. Did you get 'em or not? I can't see shit."
>You slide into a climbing turn, keeping the vapor trail in the corner of your eye.
> "Afraid not, but I've got an eye on him. How many are there?"
> "Count two so far. Other guy's lining up on our eight. Try not to give him such a fucking clean shot this time, yeah?"
>The relief that's been working its way through you recedes in a torrent and leaves you hollow. Damn shame; you'd been getting to like it.
>You steepen the bank a little, and then the Browning starts barking all over again.
>He's got speed on you. No chance in hell you're going to turn out of this.
>You yank the elevator straight up instead. The wings buffet and skip, but before one can fall you jam on the rudder.
>You seem to hang in the air a second, time grinding by like a rusty worm gear. The Browning fires, pauses, and fires again. Another net of tracers sweeps by. Two more meaty thuds and a whip-crack, but then the wing falls. This time you catch it. Now the trees are rushing to meet you again, but the fighter sails by and swoops out of view.
>The Browning spits a few more tracers. The wind whistles, then rushes, then roars.
>Shit, the trees are close now. A thousand feet at most, and maybe less than that.
>How far did you dive anyway? Too fucking far. You're hauling ass now: three hundred knots and climbing. Easy on the elevator. Two G's, then three, and even four. The wings issue a slow, tired groan and your lungs fold limply over your diaphragm, but then the nose is level again and you go skipping out over the treetops, the leaves flashing green and gold beneath you as you ease into another climb.
>You're real close to the deck now, and they have the high ground.
>Whatever you do, you'd better not fucking spin.
134.
> "Cap'n, I got a third bandit! Nine o'clock, high! He ain't divin' on us yet, but I reckon he's making ready. Possible fourth on his wing. That was some fancy fucking flying there Cap', but we've been had! I ain't sure we can keep this up."
>Four airplanes? They must have been on you all along. No wonder you'd felt so fucked.
>You should be terrified, but it seems like your adrenal gland gave up on that awhile ago.
> "Hang in there, Whitney. I'm going to drop Echo a line, then we're going for the fucker at two-thirty. We've just got to keep them on the defensive."
> "I'm hangin' 'Cap. Just wasn't planning on becoming an ace today, is all."
140.
>The radio sputters silent again. You seize the moment to gasp for air and rub some of the disbelief out of your head with the back of your thumb.
>This is real.
>It's real, and you aren't dead yet.
>And your job is done. You've sprung a trap and drawn them off; Echo's got all the time in the world to prepare, scramble airplanes, and intercept.
>You hope it's not cowardice to pray they fucking hurry.
>Glancing to Whitney's navigation figures in the co-pilot seat, you tap the radio.
>Maybe all your panting will disguise the fear in your voice.
> "Echo control, Squawking Bird. Engaging four bandits seventy miles west by southwest: Single engine fighters, woodland camouflage, no identifying markings. One's hit and leaking fuel. We can probably keep 'em busy but we need support. Squawking Bird, seventy miles west by southwest, requesting immediate support!"
>Your thumb slips from the button and the transmission cuts out. You wait with baited breath, listening to the radio hiss over the tumble of the engines while the seconds stretch out like salt water taffy.
> "--aking bird? Sq--king --rd, report!"
>You don't have any trouble picking the weather man's voice from the broken signal. He sounds a little more frantic than you'd like, but as far as you're concerned he might as well be Jesus himself. You throw him another prayer.
> "I repeat, Squawking Bird is seventy miles west by southwest, engaging four bandits. Do you read?"
> "--ead you, Bird. We're enroute. What's your status?"
> "We got tagged pretty good!"
>You can't quite hold the urgency out of your voice.
> "Understood, Bird. Support's on it's way. We'll leave the light on for 'ya."
>The transmission cuts. The needle of your radio compass springs to life and settles to your two o'clock.
> "Alright, Echo. I've got you to my zero-six-zero at sixty-eight miles. Reckon they've got you too. Probably just what they wanted all along."
> "Don't you worry about that. Take care 'a yourself, Bird; ya' done good."
>You don't have to be told twice.
161.
> "Didn't hang us out to dry, did they?"
>Whitney's voice makes you jump so hard you kick the rudder. It's soft but steady.
> "No. Echo's navigation beacon is up and we've got escorts on their way. Thinkin' we hit our bandit and then see about meeting 'em halfway, huh?"
> "Okay, Cap'n, but between you and me, I hope they fucking hurry."
> "They'll hurry. Still got eyes on our friends? Don't feel shot yet; what are they up to?"
> "Watchin' us like fuckin' vultures. We ain't puttin' up much of a fight, and they know it. Hell, I wish they'd just dive already; give me somethin' to do."
> "Scared?"
>She pauses a second, wind noise taking over again.
> "Ain't you?"
>You squeeze the yoke as if it were her paw.
> "Better fucking believe it."
> Her microphone crackles. You cross your fingers that it was laughter and not just the wind.
> "Yeah? Well you sure sound it."
>You force a half-smile.
> "Well tell 'em I was cool and calm the whole time, and I won't tell anyone you screamed."
> "Deal."
178.
> "Right. Ready, then?"
> "They ain't 'gonna be eager to let us take back any high ground. They'll be on us as soon as we make a move."
> "Reckon so."
> "Yeah, and I reckon I'd rather fight to the death than wait for it. Let's show 'em we ain't just sharkbait."
>There's a hint of steel in her voice, even as it trembles. You savor it as you firewall the throttles and raise the nose again.
>The altimeter's winding, but it's just like she said. The first two aircraft break and roll into a dive.
>You'd thought you were getting used to it, but your stomach ties itself in knots all over again.
> "Whitney, we've got--"
> "I see 'em, Cap'n."
>There's a grim certainty in her words.
189.
>It's strange. You could swear you're fucking dreaming.
>They're diving on you again. Diving fast.
>They dive until their tracers leap and spray in showers around you.
>They dive until you can count the muzzle flashes rippling up and down their wings.
>Here come those sick, fleshy thuds again, and the ring of denting metal.
>Here comes the chug of the browning.
>They're close, and coming right at you.
>So close you could almost look them in the eyes, or shoot them there if only you could drag the nose a little further.
>The tracers only get thicker.
>Any one of them could kill you; you suppose it's only luck that they don't.
>But they're head-on this time, so it's you in the crosshair.
>You instead of her.
>You'd hoped that, in the heat of the moment, you'd be glad that was so. You'd also been terrified that you wouldn't be.
>But here you are, maybe about to die. Maybe probably. And you'll be damned if you aren't fucking thankful.
>Just like you thought you should be.
>Like the man in the moving pictures.
>And this time you actually have a little airspeed to play with.
>It's not much, but it must be more than they bargained for, because now you have the room to drag your crosshair where you need it.
>So you drag it and squeeze the trigger, and in that strange, hazy, glacial second, you know exactly what it feels like to be the Sheriff Marty Wales.
209.
>You're on the far side of a hammerhead by the time you come to your senses, vision swimming and flashing with pulses of blood.
>The engines belch over the ringing in your ears, and a damp, icy wind shrieks through constellations of holes and cracks in the canopy.
>You're freezing cold, and a distant, aching pain shouts from somewhere in your left shoulder.
>Are you hit? You'd like to know, but you're not sure where you're going to find the time to check.
>The lead aircraft is back in your eyebrow window, and this time he's trailing thick, black smoke. The trees are right in front of you again, and rushing to meet you as fast as ever.
>And there's something else, too. A voice.
>Whitney.
>She's screaming your name.
218.
>You try to pull on the yoke, but the pain barks and snarls and kicks you onto your back again.
>You gather yourself and reach with the other hand. You manage to snag it, but it slides limply into your lap.
>It takes nearly a second for that to register amid the cacophony filling your mind, and the instant it does, you wish you'd just died without figuring it out.
>This can't be real. Not on your first sortie. It can't just be over; not like this.
>But you pull and push and then pull again. You pull until the yoke threatens to tear from the panel, and still the nose doesn't do so much as jostle.
>And then you know it's got to be real.
>The elevator control cable's been shot clean through.
>You're low, in a dive, and you have no elevator. The trees are big and green and fast now. They seem to reach up from the Earth to swallow you.
>Your mind and body flash with horror, but it's gone as soon as it came.
>Then it's like you're feeling everything and nothing all at once.
>You are going to die like this, and so is she.
>...poor kid.
231.
> "Anon! Anon, can you hear me?"
>Suddenly an old, familiar weight slides into your gut.
>At first you think it's just fear taking hold of you, or maybe death itself, but then the trees start to slew by.
>They slew faster and faster. The wings groan and shudder above you, but then the horizon comes around again and they quiet their whimpering.
>Somewhere in the corner of your eye you catch that thick, black plume as it falls away beneath you, twirling like a maple key until it's swallowed by the trees.
> "Holy fuck, Anon! Holy fuck, I was sure we were 'gonna die!"
>Whitney's crouched awkwardly beside you, the steel gone from her voice and her eyes wild and wet with terror and tears. She's shaking like a chihuahua, but she's got the elevator trim wheel seized in one paw, and in the other, the yoke.
> "I've got 'er Anon, now talk to me! Where, and how bad? Can 'ya tell?"
>You wedge your foot into the floorboards and hike yourself back up in the seat. Your shoulder screams at you again; you grab hold of it before you can gather the breath to speak.
> "Well what is it? You hit or what, Cap'n?"
>She swats your hand away, not waiting for your reply. Her eyes widen as she pulls your jacket lapel back.
> "Fuck."
>A shiver ripples through her fur.
> "Fuck. Anon, you think you can still keep hold of 'er? Elevator's fucked. We've got trim, but I reckon they'll be on us again 'afore long. We ain't 'gonna be doing any fancy flying on a goddamn trim tab. We're a sitting duck. I can't take over. I can't leave the gun; they'll kill us for sure! I--"
>Finally you gasp for air, burying the pain as far in the back of your mind as you can get it.
> "I can fly."
>She drops the yoke, then squeezes your hand as you trade the trim wheel. Her eyes flash in the sun as she turns to you, retinas wet and sparkling.
> "Tell me we're 'gonna be okay, Cap'n."
> "Huh?"
> "Just tell me we're going to make it out of this. Please. It don't have to be the truth; just tell me."
>You flinch and grip her a paw a little tighter. Your mind is a blur at best, but you fight to assemble the words.
> "Whitney, you just saved our li--"
> "Tell me, Cap'n! Please!"
>If she'd been trying to keep herself from crying, she certainly isn't anymore.
>You swallow a frog in your throat.
> "We're 'gonna be okay, Kid."
>She nods silently, then slips free.
259.
>Tributaries of hot, sticky blood creep their way under the collar and cuff of your undershirt. They smear like syrup on your skin as you drag yourself back to the yoke, but already you can feel the pain dulling behind a fever-like chill.
>You've been in shock before. You couldn't have said you missed it, but right about now you suppose it's the best thing you can hope for.
>The last thing you need right now is pain.
>The trim wheel is meant to hold the nose still, not move it around, It doesn't unwind the way the yoke does, and flying with it feels like you're making suggestions at best.
>Two, then three times you chase the bobbing of the nose as the airplane porpoises beneath you, and even as you wrangle it, you can't quite bring yourself to feel in control.
>One turn too many and you might not have time to dip out of a stall.
>One turn too many might kill you, and so might one too few.
>But Whitney's slid back into the turret collar, and already the weight shift has the nose bobbing all over again.
>You suppose it's probably best not to think too much. There's nothing left to do but fly.
269.
> "You okay up there, Cap'n?"
>She speaks with a loud, raspy pant and a voice that trembles like pudding.
> "I'm okay, Kid. What's our status."
> "It's..., it's bad, Cap'n. Right wing's torn half to hell. The aileron's flopping 'round like a wing-broke crow and we're pissing fuel. Cut crossfeed if you ain't already, and for the love of god, please tell me there's still fuel in the other tank."
> You hadn't had time to check. You glance over, and suddenly your throat runs dry.
> The needle's dancing like a drunkard, but even at its highest it scantly reads more than a quarter tank.
>It's something, but not much. Not for two engines. Not for long.
>You swallow again and fight for confidence.
> "We've got fuel, Whitney."
>You suppose that isn't a lie, but it sure as hell feels like one.
> "Right. Well, I'm sitting on about eight hundred rounds back here. Ain't a lot, but I reckon it'll have to do. Not like we got a lotta' options, 'ya know?"
> "I know, Kid. We're bolting for Echo now, just as fast as we can."
>You double check the radio compass; to your relief there isn't much correction to be done.
> "How far?"
> "'Bout 50 miles. Reckon our angels will be here 'fore long."
> "Hope you're right, Cap'n. That was a hell of a kill you made, and I'd sure like to make it through this to buy you a drink."
>Another frog forces its way into your throat and makes you swallow again.
> "Really wish you wouldn't talk like that, Kid."
> "Yeah, well they're already comin' about. 'Gonna be on us again any minute."
> "We'll make it. Just be ready."
> "Better believe I am, Cap'n. Just ain't trippin' ammo."
291.
292.
>You force the throttles in and shallow the props until they scream against their redlines. The temperature gauges soar and another couple of knots wind onto the airspeed indicator. It's not much, but at this point you don't need much. The escorts can't be more than twenty miles away, and maybe as few as ten. A knot could make all the difference.
>The trouble is the bandits squaring up behind you, and two of them are still high enough to dive.
>They'll catch you for sure, and this time you won't be able to do anything fancy.
>They'll settle in behind you, and when they find their mark, they won't lose it.
>Then the only thing between you and their tracers will be Whitney and hers.
>You suppose she knows that as well as you do.
299.
> "Hey Kid, how you holdin' up back there?"
> "Reckon about as well as you, Cap'n."
> "Can't say that inspires a lot of confidence."
> "Don't reckon it does. Ain't ever been scared like this, but I ain't 'gonna freak out on you. I swear."
> "Hey, I didn't--"
> "Yeah 'ya did, and I don't blame 'ya. But I'm with 'ya to the end, Cap'n. Really. Still lookin' to make it out of this."
> "Just checkin', Whit. I trust you."
> "Trust you too, Cap'n."
> "See you on the other side then, huh?"
> "Reckon so."
310.
>The trees are closer than you'd like, and they sweep by startling fervor. Beneath you the airplane bobs, swerves, and shimmies through the air like a sick and listless dolphin. Your hands and tailbone shake with the shiver of the wind as it falters over the tears in the wing, and in the throw of the yoke you can feel the shattered aileron dead and dragging.
>It's a strange, sick feeling, like that time you fell from the ladder in the barn and that bone in your leg broke clean through your skin.
>You even hadn't felt anything, but you'd looked and seen your shin bent back so far you could have passed for Avalonian yourself.
>Your stomach had seized right then. The blood hadn't seeped through the denim of your jeans yet; hell, you'd scarcely processed what happened, but you saw it, and felt an emotion you'd never felt before. You'd only ever been able to describe it as feeling wrong. Not painful; not frightening. Just wrong.
>Then you'd never felt it again.
>Not until today.
317.
>But now that wingtip dips and drags just the way your shin had, and even with the throttle firewalled, it seems you can do nothing more than crawl.
>It's funny: No matter how much Ol' Steve had liked to talk that way, you hadn't quite started personifying the airplanes you wrenched on or flew. Even Whitney seemed to do that, but you'd never thought to call your pretty little hunk of grease and aluminum "she" the way he had. It had always struck you quaint before, but an eager surge of wind gut-punches those torn and bleeding wings, and suddenly you're sure you can hear Her scream.
>You grip the yoke a little tighter and stroke its curves with the blunt of your thumb.
> "It's gonna' be alright sweetie. Just hold on a little longer for me, okay?"
>You suppose it doesn't mean anything, but you'll be damned if she doesn't seem to straighten up a little.
323.
>Echo's close enough to see now.
>The grey of her skin shines faintly on the horizon, beckoning you.
>From here she's no bigger than a grain of rice, but still she looks like salvation.
>You can't see the escorts, but they must be close.
>They'd better be, because at this rate you might not have much longer.
>One of the higher bandits dove a minute or two ago. He must have been lagging behind though, because it wasn't quite enough to catch you.
>He's trailing by maybe a mile now, but he's certainly gaining, and his partner is keeping pace further above.
>No doubt that one could catch you right now, but you suppose he's holding off until he can split your attention.
>Waiting to draw your tailgunner's fire so his partner can put a bullet through her.
>But you aren't going to let that happen.
>The thought of it sends anger spilling through your blood until you swear you can feel it frothing.
>She deserves better than that.
>God knows how, but you aren't going to let him touch her.
>The man on the silver screen wouldn't.
>Marty Wales wouldn't.
>And you aren't so worthless yourself, are you?
>You'd shot one down. Maybe killed him.
>Anon and Whitney don't just roll over and die--.
342.
> "Hey, Cap'n?"
>You cling as hard to that train of thought as you can, but you can feel it slipping through your fingers.
> "What's up? They on us?"
> "Reckon it won't be long now, but that ain't what I mean to say."
>You aren't sure what to expect anymore, but there's something in her voice you can't bring yourself to ignore. You steel yourself for it.
> "Shoot."
> "Listen, I get what you were sayin', and I ain't lookin' to talk doom. We got a minute here before this all gets decided, though, and while we got it, I just wanted to say I ain't sorry I signed up."
> "Wha'cha mean?"
> "'Gonna level, Cap'n, I ain't sure what I was expecting. Guess I thought I'd be able to handle it when the time came; guess maybe I am. But I meant what I said before. I reckon we make a real good team, and I want you to know that, whatever we're about to do, I'm glad we're 'gonna it do together. They could'a paired me with anyone, but they paired me with you, and that means the world to me. We ain't known each other long, but I'm proud to call you partner. Thought you ought to know that."
>You draw the breath to rebuke her, but the words fall flat in your mouth. You cast them off and squeeze the yoke again.
> "Me too, Kid."
354.
>Silence falls like a sack of potatoes.
>You're back in the cockpit again, whistling wind tearing away the last few grains of whatever you'd been trying to focus on.
>The fear doesn't waste any time inching back up your spine. Already you can feel yourself hanging in their sights again, the bores of their machine guns digging into your back like cougar's claws.
>Your heart is getting ready to trip over itself again, but this time something freezes the terror before it can grip you, and it falls away in shards.
>Whitney's laugh crackles over the radio like a raven's.
> "'Gonna be kinda' awkward once we're on the far side of this, ain't it?"
>You suppose it probably is.
> "Believe me, Whitney; I can't wait."
> "Won't be long now," she chirps, "I'm about to get back to work."
>You don't get a second thought before the Browning rings out again.
365.
366.
>The tracers come, but they're different this time. They're slow now, and they arc past you in sparse, sloppy trajectories. They seem to fade in and out as your pursuer weathers Whitney's fire, but this is only the beginning.
>The wind rushes and the seconds tick. On the horizon you catch the glimmer of a canopy. It's close, but not close enough. For one last time, you're on your own.
>A new set of tracers sails in from above, and you tighten your grip on the trim wheel.
>The other is diving on you. Whitney can't shoot two targets; he's gunning for her.
>Then you feel it again. The anger. It comes back in like a bore tide and surges through the strange, disparate tidepools that have been gathering in your mind, and suddenly it's very clear.
>This is it. All or nothing.
>You're not going to let them hurt her.
>You flick the trim wheel as hard as you can and send it sailing.
375.
>The nose bucks and rears like a bronco beneath you, and the world falls away at once.
>Your stomach slides back onto your spine and your shoulder shudders. The sky spreads its maw for you, and as you flop onto your back, it seems to swallow you up in the blue.
>You hear the sickly thud of an impact, and then the scream of an engine as it passes, but now there's nothing in the windows but daylight as pure and clear and cold as glacial melt.
>It washes through the tattered windows and churns around you, stirring papers, pens, and maps as you cross over the apex and gravity fails them.
>You fall limply into the top of your harness and your shoulder screams in agony, but now and it's just you and the guy behind you.
>No fancy flying your ass.
>The both of you are dangling inverted by the last few knots of your airspeed, but now there's only one of him. His partner was moving far too fast to follow you, and now he's sailing right off to meet your escorts. You've only one target left.
>Whitney can shoot one target.
>So now you're hanging there like scraps of meat, torn between the bright, blue sky, and the teeth of the land beneath you.
>He must have a shot, because tracers dance like embers all around you.
>And Whitney must, because the browning clanks and thuds with the fast, steady rhythm of an angry blacksmith.
>And you wait, seconds passing as slow as your airspeed.
>You wait as the wings falter and the nose drops.
>You wait as the trees come around in the windows again, and as you fall forward against the harness.
>You tap your finger to the rhythm of the gun, and you wait.
>All or nothing.
392.
>Now the trees fill the window again. They're big and close and coming fast, but you need speed and that means diving. You flick the wheel back and the nose dips back on itself. It's almost far enough to throw you back the other way, but you catch it, and as the airspeed builds you flick it around again.
>Another buck, and a shimmy as the wings strain on the wind.
>A low, desperate groan rings in the metal as the nose struggles for the horizon.
>The trees are so close you could touch them. If you make it it won't be by much.
>The gun fires. The wings shake. The engines rattle and pound and so do your heart and head.
>All or nothing.
>The trees swing by, and then they fall away again.
>You scramble back over the trim wheel before it can pull you into a stall and kill you.
>You spin it, the nose dips, and then you're climbing shallow and gaining airspeed.
>There's something on the radio, too.
>A shout.
>An angry, desperate, exhilarated shout.
>Even over the radio it rings as clear as a bell:
406.
> "I got 'em Cap'n! I fucking got 'em! Eat shit you son-of-a-bitch!"
>As far as you're concerned, those words are fucking poetry.
409.
>She's beside you again before you know it.
>Her eyes are wild and her fur matted. Her tail is seizing like a dying snake, and she's shaking so bad that she misses the yoke the first time she reaches for it.
>Still she settles as best she can, then reaches a paw your way to take the trim from you.
> "I've got 'er, Cap'n. I'll put her back on the deck; don't you worry."
>For as much as her voice still shivers and stumbles, there's a certainty in it you can't help but trust. You let yourself collapse back into the seat.
415.
>You feel your shoulder now. You feel it a lot.
>It screams at you loud enough you have to fight to stay quiet yourself, and then loud enough that you can't quite manage.
>She glances your way when you yelp, but the airplane bucks and calls her back.
> "Well, it don't sound like you're passin' out on me yet."
>There's some humor in her voice, but it's bogged down in enough concern that you can barely hear it. You grit your teeth.
> "Reckon not."
> "Ain't dizzy, are you?"
>You hadn't thought to check, but at this point you doubt you could tell anyway.
> "I'm fine. Just fly, okay?"
> "I'll be gentle."
> "That's real sweet of 'ya Whitney, but forget about me. This'll be your first time landing on an airship, won't it? Worry about that."
> "Only two fewer than you. Have a little faith, Cap'n."
> "You'll be doing it with a trim wheel."
>She shrugs.
> "Didn't say it was going to be easy to be gentle; just said I would be. Now talk to me, Cap'n. How you feelin'? Reckon anything's broke?"
>Your shoulder feels like a truck hit it, and blood smears your skin as thick and sticky as rotten jam. Somewhere in the distance the nerves in your arm sing like cicadas, but their buzzing is muffled and far away.
432.
>You've been shot. Actually shot. With a bullet from a gun. You'd never thought it would happen to you, but you suppose nobody ever does.
>So is it as bad as you thought it would be? You aren't sure.
>You'd have liked to have been one of those guys who goes the whole battle without realizing he's been hit, or, better yet, one of those guys who goes on fighting like nothing happened because he has a job to do.
>You suppose you're doing your best, but the truth is you're frightened.
>It can't be that bad, right?
>Surely it can't, but still your mind calls up the image of that poor sap you saw stabbed in the alley, and the way he clutched at his wound and bled all around his fingers just like you are.
>Maybe he thought it wasn't that bad, right up until his eyes had rolled back. You hadn't wanted to watch, but you'd been too scared to turn away.
>You fight the thought out of your mind, but for every ounce of adrenaline that leaks out of your blood, another dose of anxiety bubbles to the surface.
> "I 'dunno. Collar might be broke. Shoulder hurts like hell; arm feels kinda' fucky, too."
>She must have heard it in your voice, because she releases the trim wheel and sets her paw on the back of your hand.
> "That was some good fucking flying, Cap'n. Reckon you saved my life more 'n once today. Thought they could make quarry of us, but we fuckin' showed 'em, huh?"
>You give in and let yourself squeeze her paw a little. The fear takes a few steps back.
> "We sure did."
> "Told 'ya we make a good team! Now hang in there, okay? Won't be long now."
>You suppose it won't, because suddenly Echo's great gray skin slides in and fills the eyebrow windows, and the cockpit falls into shadow. The airplane thumps over the border of Echo's wake like a set of railroad tracks, and then the air is rough but steady.
448.
>Meter by meter you edge your way to the hangar, and then finally the wingtips pass the threshold and you find yourself inside.
>For a few long seconds you hover unsteadily between the walls. They seem a lot closer than they do when you have your hand on the yoke, but, even as the wind shudders over the torn, bleeding wings, Whitney's paws are steady and sure.
>Maybe it's the shock talking, but in that moment she's a work of art.
>The light filtering in from the front of the bay paints the white in her fur in copper and goldenrod, and the trim wheel rolls under her claw with expert, easy grace.
>The both of you would die if she screwed it up, but you know she won't.
>Every move she makes is as firm, confident, and delicate as a surgeon's.
>Every line of her muzzle and every tuft of fur is sharp, beautiful, and poised.
>You don't know how, but she'll do what she said she'd do.
>Somehow, despite everything, she'll set the both of you down like she's been doing it all her life.
>She'll even be--
>The world explodes with a bark like a walrus, and your spine slams back together again.
>You reach out to brace on the panel, but your arm shrieks with pain, and then shrieks louder as the left wing dips and throws you into your seat restraint.
>There's an impact then, and then a crack of thunder and a horrible, angry roar.
>Hangar whirls into a blur around you.
>The props scream and the tires squeal.
>Even in the chaos you can feel meaty tentacles of wind snaring your wings, and hear the grinding of metal as they drag you back along the deck.
>Whitney jams the throttles and the props pulse and churn and clatter.
>But then something changes.
>They falter over still air and drag you forward.
>Suddenly you're free from the wind rushing over the runway, and then she's caught the spin with a jam on the rudder.
>Suddenly the rush is gone, and then the grind and roar.
>And you limp into the hangar bay on rough and squeaking wheels.
>The engines cough and shudder to a stop, and Whitney collapses into her seat, body limp and quivering.
472.
>The silence is heavy with the engines gone, and exhaustion settles over you like a lead blanket.
>You slump back into your seat and listen to the quiet sobbing of your wounded airplane:
>The steady trickle of fuel onto the deck.
>The tired ticking of overheated engines.
>The whimper of hinges limp in their travel.
>You find yourself stroking the panel with your good hand.
> "I'm sorry, girl. I did the best I could."
>The airplane doesn't reply, but something squeezes your arm instead.
> "You okay, Cap'n?"
>You wiggle free and take hold of Whitney's paw yourself.
> "Yeah. You?"
>She locks eyes with you, but only manages half a nod before her gaze tumbles to the floor.
> "I'm real sorry, Anon. I tried to set her down real nice and neat, but I guess I wasn't slow enough. I thought I was being careful comin' in hot like that, but the wind took her as soon as the wheels touched. She started porpoising and-- and I tried to keep 'er from stallin', but when I was goin' for the trim wheel she started rollin', and I--."
>Something snaps in your mind. Your shoulder feels like someone's driving nails into it, but you twist in your restraints and throw your good arm over her, then pull so tight that her sentence trails off with a squeak.
> "Thanks for flyin', Kid."
>And you aren't sure why, but you can't seem to bring yourself to let go of that wind-torn fur.