The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [186]
But that would be the final admission that he was worthless. The humiliations he’d suffered at the paws of the Ketty Jay’s cat had whittled his pride to a shred, but it was the last shred he had, and he didn’t want to let go of it. So he gritted his teeth, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and tried to think brave thoughts.
You can’t hurt them anyway, the voice persisted. What are you going to do? Your little machine guns against armored frigates? You won’t even scratch them.
That was true. But Harkins wasn’t planning on attacking the dreadnoughts directly. He’d heard stories about the Manes. The dreadnoughts had more than cannons to defend themselves.
As the Windblades approached, the dreadnoughts released their Blackhawks.
They slid from recesses in the flanks of their mother craft and swooped out into the sky in a dark flock. It chilled Harkins to see them, and he had to withstand another assault on his resolve. They were so damned unnatural. Their wings swept far forward, curving to either side of the cockpit. The front end of the cockpits were round windows, through which their hideous pilots could be seen. Their very shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Aerium engines had long since removed the need for wing lift in aircraft, but it should have been impossible to bank and turn at that speed with their wings slanted so far forward, like the tines of a meat fork. There was no tail assembly or rudder, only a blunt back end housing a thruster. How did they steer?
But however they did it, they did it well. Unlike the dreadnoughts, the Blackhawks flew in threes or sixes, in formations so tight they seemed suicidal. Yet they yawed and dived all together, like birds or bats, as if all the pilots were of exactly the same mind. Their coordination was literally inhuman.
You really want to fight these?
He really didn’t. But he was going to anyway.
The Windblades’ assault had been carefully timed so that they’d reach the enemy just after the frigates came into range. The effect was shattering. The sky over the city detonated in a terrifying thunder of smoke and flame. Great chains of explosions ripped among the dreadnoughts, sending the Blackhawks wheeling away. For a few brief moments, the enemy was in disarray, its formations buckled by the force of the fusillade. The Windblades lanced through the artillery haze and opened up with their machine guns.
The first assault was devastating. The sleek Windblades cut into their enemy, guns spitting, ripping through exposed flanks and keels. The Blackhawks tried to evade, but the ferocity of the attack overwhelmed them. Some went plunging earthward, trailing smoke. Others were torn into dirty balls of fire, their wings spinning away through the sky.
But the Windblades’ dominance was short-lived. The Blackhawks snapped back into formation with unbelievable speed. Shattered groups of fighters merged into units, locking in as if drawn together by magnets. The Manes were on the counterattack faster than anyone could have predicted. The Windblades found themselves surrounded and under fire in moments.
A second wave of artillery came in, this time aimed at the dreadnoughts. The powerful guns of the dreadnoughts bellowed in reply. At this range the shots were speculative but still deadly if they hit home.
Harkins shuddered and shook in his cockpit. He was flying high and to starboard of the main body of Mane craft. Below, beyond his port wing, he could see down onto the deck of one of the dreadnoughts. It swarmed with nightmarish figures, leering and strange. Some wore rags, others wore motley, still others strode among them in outlandish armor. He saw one that was a giant, at least eight feet tall, arms bulging with veined muscles and a neck thick as an ox’s. They manned deck guns, ran back and forth with ammunition, or took potshots with rifles as the Windblades flew by. A filthy horde, yowling and shrieking, terrifying in aspect.
His hands gripped the flight stick hard. Blackhawks and dreadnoughts alike had ignored