The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [187]
Leave. Just go.
No.
She’s dead. It’s not worth it. Live to fight another day.
But what if she wasn’t? He couldn’t bear the disappointment in her eyes if she knew he’d left her.
They’ll kill you!
He gritted his teeth and let out a high wail that was his best approximation of a battle cry. Then, before he could think any better of it, he thrust the stick forward and plunged into the fray.
The sound of the Firecrow’s engines rose to a scream as he dived. Below him were three Blackhawks, flying across his path, apparently oblivious to him. He didn’t much fancy taking on three, so he looked about for a single Blackhawk, one that was damaged or detached from the flock. There was none to be seen. It was three or nothing.
Three it was. He wouldn’t let himself back out now. He’d do it for Jez.
He took aim, accounting for speed and distance with an expert eye. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and squeezed the trigger.
The brash clatter of his machine guns made him jump. They seemed exceptionally loud. By firing them he’d broken his silence and invited the attention of the enemy.
But the Blackhawks paid the price for ignoring him. His first salvo caught the formation squarely from above, ripping through the body of one of the craft and tearing the cockpit and pilot to pieces. The other two reacted before he could bring his guns to bear on them. They spiraled away crazily, spinning and turning, drawing G-forces that would have made a human pilot pass out.
Harkins pulled out of his dive and raced away, hoping their evasive tactics would make them lose sight of him. Now that the surprise attack was over, he feared retribution.
But his tactic was useless. The Blackhawks air-braked and came climbing toward him, hard and steep. A third one appeared from nowhere, slipping into formation to replace the one he’d destroyed. Suddenly Harkins found himself pursued by a trio of aircraft, a three-clawed pincer reaching up toward him.
“Oh, this isn’t bloody fair at all!” he squealed, as the air around him filled with tracer fire. He threw his craft left and right: diving, rolling, spiraling. Yellow incendiary bullets blazed past his wings. The Blackhawks shot past him. They braked, split apart, and in seconds they were back in formation again, right on his tail.
Harkins craned around in his seat, trying to catch sight of them. He jinked left and then dived, evading them by instinct alone. A salvo of bullets shredded the air where he’d been a moment before.
He tore down toward the heart of the conflict, risking the artillery barrage. Anything to get them off his back. Between evasions, he contorted himself in his cockpit, attempting to locate them. But the bastards were nailed to his blind spot and wouldn’t be thrown off.
His heart was thumping and his face was glistening with sweat. This was exactly what he’d feared would happen. The Blackhawks were out of his league. Messing with them was an invitation to get killed.
Oh, blimey, damn, and shit, what’ve I just got myself into?
Explosions all around him. Pummeling blasts of sound and flame and fury. He shrieked against the din. The Firecrow was thrown this way and that. He plunged past the flank of a dreadnought and caught a flash impression of the decks—seething with Manes, like maggots on a carcass.
Then the explosions faded, and he still wasn’t dead. He slammed into a sequence of maneuvers that pushed him to the limits of his endurance. Turns so steep that his vision sparkled and his head went light. Crushing dives that sent the blood pulsing hard in his sinuses and forehead and threatened a red-out.
He pulled up, head pounding. That’s the best I’ve got, he thought. There’s nothing more.
Machine guns opened up on his tail. Bullets chipped his starboard wing. He spun away with a curse, craned over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of them. Right there, as if they’d never been away. They’d matched him move for move, implacable, just waiting for him to stop for an instant so