FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

1

It's barely first light when you step into the lounge. The air is crisp. It tastes of mist and diesel, and not as strange or frightening as you thought it would. Hell, close your eyes and it could'a been any old Sunday. Could'a finished rubbing out the sleep and looked up to find yourself stumbling up that rutted dirt road to see Ol' Steve, late frogs still chirping, and dawn faint on the horizon. But there are no frogs. Somewhere far above propellers murmur, and if you stand very still you can feel their resonance in the floor. You're going flying, but it's different this time, even if you don't feel it yet. No Steve. No hot, bitter coffee or half-burnt pancakes, and only a hint of cigarette smoke where the peaty smell of pipe tobacco should have been. No gruff handshake. No good morning. No lesson.

No one at all, actually. Funny. By your watch you're three minutes late. Maybe folks were right about this girl.

You don't know a whole lot about her. Her file says she's twenty-one, so a couple years under you, and about as inexperienced as they come. 'Course it wasn't like you had much of a record yourself, but Ol' Steve had taught you to fly good and proper. The heavy canvas jacket on your shoulders and leather flying gloves aren't just a game of dress-up. You're the real deal, or Steve wouldn't have left you the airplane.

You pluck a copy of the paper from the counter and pace a little, brushing the morning frost from your mustache and exaggerating a long-healed limp: You're the real deal. A fighter pilot, like in the moving pictures. And she's a scared, stupid kid in way over her head.

Word on the street was her parents helped her out to get here, or she knew somebody high up. Wilder rumor claimed she was from Avalon. Of those, most said she was a dog of some kind. A few said wolf. One held that she was some sort of flamingo. You don't put much stock in any of that, but one way or another, you'll have to set her straight.

The door rattles. You take a breath, wedge the paper up with your thumb, and summon your sternest scowl. It's not as good as Steve's, but it'll do.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Somehow your voice always comes out a little higher-pitched than you imagine.

"I didn't sleep real well last night. Big day, you know."

There's a hint of apology in her voice, but less than you'd hoped. You look up slowly, hoping it isn't obvious you didn't sleep much either.

"That ain't an excuse," you spit, looking up, "they depend on us to keep this balloon afloat, and that means being ready to protect her at a moment's--"

You'll be damned; she's a fucking border collie. Cute, too, particularly with those flight goggles hanging in the V of her sheepskin jacket. You blink hard and fake a cough.

"...notice. If we fuck up, people die, goods are lost, and dreams are crushed. So when I say 0500 that ain't a goddamn suggestion. You got that?"

Shit, that wasn't half bad. It sounded almost like you knew what you were doing, and her proud ears falter. Steve would have liked that.

"I understand. Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Sir. She called you sir. You hate how good it feels. Ego bolstered, you step forward and raise a hand to her. She slaps her paw in eagerly.

"Whitney," she barks, looking confident again, "Whitney Latham."

It's a firm shake, for someone without thumbs.

"Anon."

She smiles wryly, showing a bit of canine tooth.

"Reckon I probably shouldn't call you 'Annie', should I?"

"Reckon not."

You wait for her to ask for pity and enough time for breakfast, but instead she rocks on her heels and shoulders back through the door, stopping it with a boot to wait for you.

"It's the little blue twin engine it, right? In bravo-hangar?"

Blue? It's naval camouflage, thank you very much. You decide not to press your luck.

There aren't many humans who can claim to know an Avalonian in honesty. Once, over a beer, Steve claimed to have fucked one during his time on merchant steamers, but he was a better instructor than he was a liar.

They're an enigmatic lot, rarely seen beyond their archipelago's treacherous waters except to trade. And when they did, they brought things nobody had ever seen before. At least that's what Jack, bartender at The Last Piaster, had told you.

But she seems "normal", for lack of a better word. Not much accent. Bit of a shock to look at, but it's easy to get past. Weird ankles, cute ears.... And that bushy tail of hers: was it routed over the waistband or directly through her khakis? You take the opportunity to indulge your curiosity, but you haven't quite figured it out by the time you sidle past her to pop the hatch to the ventral catwalk.

Cold, wet air hits you like a day-old dish rag. The grip-stamped aluminum and suspension wires run slick with autumn dew, and your jacket yields to frigid tendrils around the wrists and collar. And then there's the shimmy. Aircraft have to be flexible. The bigger and faster they are the truer that is. Echo's enormous, and she's no slouch.

The ventral catwalk, which is nearly as long as she is, sways like a carnival ride. A few steps and you've got the suspension lines in a death grip. Echo's envelope opens up into a yawning cavern around you. Her taut, gray skin filters the morning light like gossamer. Would it catch you if you fell, or would you punch through? You press forward with false confidence. Fighter pilots aren't afraid of heights. You're the real deal. You could sword fight on one of these things. You turn back to Whitney, hoping to find her hesitating. Turns out she isn't giving you the pleasure.

Scarcely bothering with the wires, she stares up into the superstructure with a wonder you haven't felt since your were about twelve. A grin slides across her muzzle as she studies the gas bags and tension lines, her breath flashing into billows of steam and gathering on her whiskers as snow.

"Big, isn't it?"

You press on, stepping carefully now that you know she isn't watching.

"Big? It's incredible! I could spend all day here! The size of those gas cells.... What's her total volume?"

"Well, across twenty cells...,"

You should know. You know what you're doing, after all. But you don't.

"...Enough. Enough flammable hydrogen haul us past where the seagulls dare. They're our life-blood--,"

"And we get to protect them," she chirps. And thank god. Where seagulls dare? Fuck, that was stupid; any luck and she wasn't listening too close.

"This ain't an easy job, kid."

"Oh, I don't reckon, else I'd have slept like a baby. Dawn patrol don't sound like much over civilization like this, but there's a feeling I can't quite shake, ya' know?"

You do know. It settled in your stomach around two in the morning, and so far it's only gotten more restless. But she shakes it as if shedding water.

"I'm fine, though, Cap'n. I'm sure I'll feel better when we get in the air and I got a job to do. Always feel better with a job."

"Yeah? Well just stick with me and do as I say. Keep your head, and you'll be alright."

"Can do, Cap'n."

Hah. Captain. Technically you were one any time you got behind the controls, but nobody's ever called you that before.

Bravo is the larger of Echo's two hangars, broad at the mouth, and long enough to launch or land something that needed a bit more airspeed than Echo herself could provide. It was enough for small transport aircraft and some of the longer-range observers. Perhaps a night-fighter, if one was a very good pilot. You must be one, too, because you landed yours there, and after had needed only two shots of whiskey. Squadron-lead Kaz told you that was less than usual.

The two of you enter into the recessed alcove that runs along the hangar's port side, damp morning wind crashing in waves over the deck not sixty feet from you. The alcove, which serves as a flight line, is sheltered by a series of baffles that Kaz had called "The Breakwater", but even behind them the metal walls and wooden floor run slick with streaks of slush and dew, and the broken gusts that reach you gnaw like scavengers.

Whitney winces and flips the collar of her jacket up under her scarf. You make like you're used to it, but your nose and eyes burn as ice crystalizes in the tender flesh around them, and your boots slip half-steps on patches of ice. Together you stumble for the airplane.

She's a P-73 Cormorant: an Eastern Aerodyne amphibian flying boat with a broad fuselage and wings bent like a gull's to clear her props from the waterline. A cargo ship, really, but a slippery one. Steve had gotten her surplus from the postal service and made a fighting machine out of her, and since then she'd seen another ten years of border watch and one solid fight she still bore scars from. She was heavy and a bit outdated, but a flexible airplane for a flexible vagabond like you. Besides, it hadn't stopped Steve painting a few silhouettes on her bow. Of course, this was Steve who claimed he'd fucked an Avalonian.

"She's pretty!" Whitney muses, ducking for shelter under the lee-side wing. It wasn't the term you'd have picked, but it makes you smile and drives some of the cold away. You stop short of the ladder, trying to remember something Steve told you long ago.

"She sure is. But remember, Kid: It's a lot better to be down and wishing you were up than up and wishing you were down. I know it doesn't seem important, but before every flight--"

"I do know how to fly, you know?"

She ducks out from under the horizontal stabilizer and runs a blunted claw along the elevator hinge, looking a little hurt.

"Also, your trim jackscrew is pretty rusty. Will you work the trim for me real quick? Don't know about you, but I'd rather it not get stuck, myself."

You flinch. The trim jackscrew is shrouded part way into the skin of the stabilizer. Usually you just feel to make sure it's in there.

"I've, uh, had my eye on it."

"Yeah, well, all the same...."

"No, no. You're right. We should check."

You scurry up the ladder and haul yourself over the cockpit frame, leaving the canvas covering open behind you. You grab the trim wheel and cross your fingers. Any luck and it won't stick, or you'll come up with a good excuse before it does.

"Okay, Run it forward?"

You do as you're told, and seize the moment to straighten out the thought that's been bugging you:

Alright, so she knows what she's doing. She's still in over her head, right? She needs you, and you need her to listen to you. Now's not the time to look weak.

It sounds good when you put it that way, and you push out the nagging feeling that this masquerade could be a greenhorn mistake of its own. The trim wheel sticks a little toward its bottom stop. You grimace.

"Other way?"

You flick it back. It catches a little and frees itself again. She mutters something skeptical, but her voice is dull behind the aluminum.

"I'll start in here if you finish up out there, alright?"

"So long as you trust me, Cap'n. She's your ship."

"Gonna' have to trust you. Reckon I might as well start now."

Despite the cold and tight quarters, the worn leather of the left seat wraps you in the same-old blanket of sights, sounds and smells:

The ragged whir of the gyros.

The warm amber of the oil pressure warning light.

The sweet, smokey flavors of leather, oil, fuel, and dew.

You could even taste a hint of the sweetgrass that grew along the the strip behind Steve's place, and a faint whiff of that peaty pipe smoke.

It was like every other time time, straight back to the very first when your eyes had shown so bright and wide as the first rays of dawn fell across the matted sod. You'd been no older than sixteen, but even then it had seemed so familiar. You'd dug and dug for the memory it belonged to but you'd never found it, even though some mornings you could swear it was hanging on the tip of your tongue.

But it's warm, safe feeling. A sense of belonging you'd never found anywhere or with anyone else. And that you felt it at all is proof enough:

You are who you think you are.

You're meant to do what you feel you are.

You are the real deal.

The pit in your stomach eases up for the first time since it started that morning.

A knock on the glass brings you back to reality as the last switch on the checklist snaps under your finger. You startle a little and look up to find Whitney's muzzle propped up over the side of the window.

"Jackscrew's sticky, but it'll do for today. I'll take care of it when we get back. Other than that, we've got fifty-two gallons in each tank, no water. Ten quarts of oil left, nine and a half right. Control surfaces free and correct. How's the weather?"

Ah, shit. Weather.

"Come on in and we'll go over it."

She nods dutifully and 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 Al, who runs the little observation "tower" back home. Al's alright. You've had beers with Al.

But this is a real airship control deck. They won't be patient, or appreciate niceties, and you'd rather not make a fool of yourself on the radio with Whitney there to hear it. Sighing, you think back to what Steve had taught you in the beginning, and conjure the most professional voice you can manage.

"Echo Weather, Screamin' Eagle."

God damn you regretted writing that down as your callsign on the sign-up form when you shipped. Turns out you're supposed to earn those, like Tucker "Whirligig" Riley, who'd suffered an unfortunate incident trying to hand-prop his little biplane. Fortunately the radio comes to life before you can hate yourself any more for it.

"Mornin' Squawkin' Bird. Echo weather...,"

The transmission stays hot for a slurp of coffee.

"...what can I do for 'yeh?"

You stumble, but find the voice again.

"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 sip.

"'N after that, we got some thin fog outside, but I reckon it burns off within the hour. No major convection between here and Norfolk. Anything else I can do for 'yeh?"

"Altitude?"

"We read six thousand five hundred with 29.78 inches on the barometer. Freezing level's somewhere around eight thousand, but I reckon the hangar venturi has probably picked up a bit of ice already."

"29.78. Thanks. Shall I contact launch control?"

"Yeh can if 'ya want, but yeh just 'gonna get me again. Still the night shift over here."

"Then I'm departing Bravo-Hangar."

"Good hunting, mate."

The radio pops off. Hopefully he's not serious about the "hunting" part. Surely he isn't. You're still on the east coast. You've lived here all your life. Things are stable.

Presently 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 as she shuffles about looking for a place to slot it in, finally folding it behind her and tucking it between her seat and the quilted wall. Even still, the narrow cabin pinches you together at the hips and shoulders. "Getting Intimate", Steve had called it. Between the two of them, it was no question who you'd prefer to be intimate with. Because she's lighter, and you'll have better climb performance. Yeah. That's why.

Surely she's used to it too, but one of her ears flicks bashfully nonetheless.

"You, uh, aren't allergic, are you Cap'n?"

Your brain trips over itself. You actually are allergic to dogs, come to think of it. Are you allergic to her? Doesn't matter. Don't look weak.

"I don't think so."

She smiles and settles back into the seat quilting. A bit more of her weight settles on your shoulder. It's not unwelcome. You fish out a checklist.

Battery

Off

Magnetos

Off

Mixture

Cutoff

Throttle

Idle

Tank Selector

Both

You turn to your co-pilot. She catches on quickly.

"She crank-start, Cap'n?"

"Yeah. Inboard side of the engine cowl, top of the wing."

She nods and stands back up in her seat.

"Also, might want to shut that radio. The alternator current will jump when I drop the starter. Fries 'em sometimes. I know some people think it's an old wive's tale, but I seen it happen."

"That so?"

"That's so, Cap'n."

Again you do as you're told. There's a scratching as her claws blunt across the aluminum, the thud of an elbow, and then the howl of the wind gives way to to the slow-building whine of the inertial starter.

"Listen," she rasps, working the crank, "I want you to know I really appreciate you taking 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...."

She grunts, rocking the airplane with the effort.

"...Maybe they didn't give you a whole lot of choice, but I ain't heard you complain about it neither. An' that means a lot ot me...."

Her breathing gets easier as the whine builds into a howl.

"...It's my first time 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 it worth your while, okay?"

"That so?"

"That's so, Cap'n. Maybe there's somethin' you gotta teach me sometimes, but then I'll learn, yeah?"

She thrusts her free paw back into the cabin. You shake firmly. It makes you feel warm all over.

"You got a deal, Kid."

She turns away again, her tail betraying her with a bit of a wag.

"All set here, Cap'n."

You drop a hand to the throttle quadrant.

Mixture

Rich

Throttle

Open

Battery

On

Primer

.,.actually it's better to stroke the throttle a few times. The primer sucks.

"Set here, Kid."

"Contaaaaact!"

Magneto

On

"Contact!"

The starter moans. The prop turns. The engine coughs. You jockey the throttle and mix. Come on, don't fuck this up in front of Whitney. Not after that whole speech she gave you.

It coughs again, then barks.

Lean the mixture a little. You're at altitude.

Bark. Pop. Clatter.

A little less.

The bark and whir turns over and churns into thunder. You're in business.

Tach

Manifold

Oil Pressure

Oil Temperature

Green, green, green, and warming.

You make the other side ready, wincing under the sudden pressure of Whitney's hindpaws on your lap.

"'Scuse me Cap'n."

Then it's the same song and dance again: magneto, throttle, mix, contact. This time you get it by the second revolution instead of the fourth, and as the prop settles into a rhythmic thrum Whitney drops in beside you again, white patches of her fur stained black with carbon and smelling of half-burnt fuel. Somehow it's no less soft when she brushes against you again to button down the canvas. You pretend not to notice, and make a show of watching the oil temperature gauges edge into their green arks. They're about there by the time she's settled in, ears folded back awkwardly against the clatter of the props. She fiddles with wires a moment, then jams a probe from each of them into the sockets under the panel 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 everyone's voice, but somehow you can still hear the eagerness in hers.

"Loud and clear, Kid. You?"

"Loud and clear. You got a brief for me?"

"Know how to handle a radio?"

"'Course! '...least Avalonian syntax, but I reckon it ain't that different."

"Then I want you on that and keeping an eye out for any bogeys. Reckon we identify most anyone out here, but it's better to call a false alarm than miss a threat."

"Can do!"

You're about to go for the throttle, but you hang on what the weather guy said, and your hand falls short.

Good Hunting.

"Hey, Whitney?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how to shoot?"

"Rifles? Sure. Bro and I used to have contests back in the day, 'till he got sore about me winnin'. Plus varments and such. Not a lot of big game in Avalon."

"How about an M2 Browning?"

You indicate over your shoulder toward the open-air turret nestled behind the main wing. She glances behind her and then back, eyebrow perhaps raised. You hear her hesitate.

"Yeah, I think I can do that."

"Ain't a question of what you think, Kid."

"I can do it."

"Good."

You pay the gauges one last glance, and edge the throttle forward. The rumble of the props and engines smooth and the wheels lurch into motion. Your breathing shallows and eyes widen. The second you clear the Breakwater it'll be 60 knot winds out of nowhere. Turn too shallow and you'll get pulled right around. Maybe the wind gets under the wing and flips you. Too fast and you blunder into the far wall.

You've done this once before, when you shipped, to qualify, but only once.

Two shots of whiskey. Less than usual.

You pull the yoke into your lap, roll the aileron into the wind, and push the balls to the wall. The wheels bump over the threshold and the wind strikes the fuselage like a sledgehammer. Already the yaw's slipping, and then slipping the other way as the wind catches the vertical stabilizer. Don't let it go to far! Hard on the rudder! The upwind wing wrenches one of the landing gear from the ground but you force it down again with the aileron and catch the slewing tail with another stroke of rudder.

Yoke forward! Get the stabilizer in the air!

The nose comes forward, and the shimmy snaps out into an orderly weathervane. For a moment you're treading water, held stationary by the howling wind. But the engines roar and surge and strain and bit by bit you ease forward.

Sixty-six knots.

Seventy.

Seventy-five.

The hangar walls slide, then roll, and then race by. The sky rushes forth to meet you, and the wheels give one last jolt as you cross the threshold and fall away. The sick feeling of falling pours in to your gut as you claw for the last few knots you need to fly, wings skipping on stall-buffet like broken records and you feet flailing on the rudder to hold them level.

Let the airplane roll, and you'll spin.

Spin, and you'll die.

Ease the nose down.

Eighty knots.

And back up.

And like that's its over as quickly as it started. You're coasting up alongside Echo's great, silver flank so close it seems you could run your hand along her, and as the adrenaline recedes, you catch Whitney spending the last of her breath on a protracted cheer. She's white-knuckling the hand rail on her right and has her left paw pinned on your thigh, muzzle plastered with a manic grin you'd thought limited to horror flicks.

"Anon, that was incredible!"

"Always is."

Your voice, despite your best efforts, comes breathlessly.

As you crest the dorsal structure you settle back and level out, watching the last of the morning dew slide from the windows and paying a quick wave to the man in the dorsal observation dome as you drift by it. The fog is gone within the hour, and in its place a crisp, autumn morning spreads like the pages of a children's book. The sky is sharp and clear save a few billows of icy-looking cumulus to the east, so perfect and fluffy they seem painted. The cold fades under the onslaught of hot, parched air spilling from the heater manifolds, and with it you relax the rest of the way.

It really is just flying.

Whitney settles against you, or perhaps you against her, and together you watch North Carolina drift by like a moving picture. Farms glow gold with wheat and green with corn and tobacco. Wave crests glitter like fool's gold, and the beaches catch alight with the pale burn of the sun itself.

And for the second time in your life that first-time feeling hits you: that sense that the whole world was built just for today, and that you were born to see it. It was the kind of thing that made you wonder if Ol' Steve was right to put his faith in God, but god, to your knowledge, was not a pilot. No, if this was here because somebody wanted you to see it, you were pretty sure it was Steve, himself.

"Hey, Kid?"

"Somethin' I can do for ya, Cap'n?"

You turn and find Whitney scratching at her kneeboard with a pen, wild grin replaced with an easy smile.

"How long you wanted to do this sort of thing?"

She snorts and reclines a few inches further into her seat.

"Shit, I 'dunno. Forever? Ranch had an airstrip as long as I been around. Dad used it for crop dusting and got into racing after a spell, and then a bit 'a design. It's part of who we are. I guess my bro didn't take to it quite like I did, but I don't reckon there's much any other way I could'a turned out. I ain't complainin' neither, so I never gave it much thought, ya' know?

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. How long you been flying?"

Her eyes roll back as she tabulates something with taps of paw pads on her thigh.

"Uh, maybe fourteen 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 nearly twice as long as you, and you can't help a little jealousy in picturing it. You'd never known your father. Something had happened. You never could get anyone to give you the details, but whatever it was was grim business. Your uncle looked after you in the beginning. Good guy, but out of his depth. In the end you'd raised yourself on books, model airplanes, and the bb gun he scraped to get you for Christmas that one year. That was it until you started working for Steve; still, here you were. And here she was calling you "Captain." Maybe she won't ask.

"What about you, Cap'n?"

If she'd asked in the lounge that morning you'd have lied, but now you can't make yourself do it.

"Seven years," you swallow. She snorts again.

"Well I guess 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. 'Sides, way I hear, those guys rarely make it through their first year in this kinda' work."

"Yeah? Well, so what if I ain't?"

She shrugs, laughing

"Then I guess I ain't much greener. But fair's fair, Cap'n. She's your ship, 'n you fly her just fine. I'm just some kid who got lucky. I reckon I handle a stick and rudder pretty good, but that don't mean I know my tail from a rattlesnake's ass doing much anything else. Certainly not making any kinda real money at it."

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 sod of an aerodrome drifts by, smart little airplanes flitting in and out like starlings. Whitney calls them dutifully, but bandits and pirates don't fly little yellow biplanes around the heart of the Eastern Union.

The two of you speak sporadically. Evidently she likes a little cream in her coffee, and played baseball for a few years way back when. Her brother runs a shrimp boat, and knows how to cook the fuckers just right, too, but she's still a way better shot than he is. She thinks your country is beautiful, and maybe she's been 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, like your uncle said your father did. About how shrimp is a stupid fish and it's all about smoked salmon, and you're not such a bad shot yourself, and maybe you'll have to show her how it's done sometime.

But she doesn't stop calling you "Cap'n", and it doesn't stop giving you that warm feeling.

At the top of the fifth hour your shift is about up, which is good given your fuel is running a bit peaked, and the cramp in the base of your spine is really starting to kill. The sun hangs high overhead and casts Echo in a shark-like two-tone of light and shade. It's warm in the bright parts, enough to sweat even with the heaters off. Whitney glances over to you, whiskers drooping a little and eyes squinted against the glare.

"Shifts always this long?"

"They break it up a little more out at sea, and in riskier areas. Here though, yeah. Five hours, and mostly one airplane at a time."

She cocks her head, watching the tidewater and estuaries drift by below.

"Why do you figure they even bother with escorts 'round here? This is your home base; what could happen?"

You honestly hadn't questioned it. You shrug.

"Practice, I reckon. Or to make sure we can work together."

The guess doesn't seem to satisfy her.

"I heard we're dealing with some pretty exotic cargo, but I couldn't get shit from anyone about what. Think that might be to do with it?"

You shake your head doubtfully.

"A lot of fiction and falsehood in a place like this. You talk to that Tucker kid? Swears he saw an Airwhale out in the Oklahoma territory. I wouldn't take anything you hear in there as fact."

"Still, they ain't told us what we're going to Norfolk for. Gotta' reckon there's a reason they ain't."

"I 'dunno. Maybe."

"...But yeah, you don't reckon anything'll happen 'round here, right?"

There's some anxiety in her voice; it's clear she's been thinking about it. You flash back to that morning:

Good hunting.

"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."

"That what the Browning's for? Nothing?"

"Better to be prepared. Didn't think you were signing up for a flying club, did'ja? Signed the same paper I did."

She shakes her head and her voice evens out again.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. It just all seems so perfect, almost like it really is just a flying club, only then it gets quiet for awhile and you get to thinkin' about why you're really there. That something might really, ya' know, happen. But 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?"

She's forcing it, but there's some genuine bravado in the depths of her voice. With a hint of shame, you have to admit to yourself it makes you feel a bit better too.

"Yeah, that's why we'ere here. And she may not look like it, but Echo's bristling with guns. Any chucklefucks come around, and it'll be a race to see who can paint the most silhouettes on their hull.

"Hah.Yeah."

"Yeah."

There's a moment of silence, but she turns back to you.

"...can I ask you somethin', Cap'n?"

Your stomach tightens. You'd hoped not to dwell on the matter.

"Yeah?"

"You ever shoot anyone down?"

"No."

"You ever been shot at?"

"Once."

"Well, I ain't done either."

"First time for everything, ain't there?"

"Reckon so."

You hear her swallow, and so do you. But she shakes again, and the smile comes back as you 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 sigh, realizing in the process that your sinuses are in fact a bit stopped up.

.