Moeller stood at the open gallery windows in his office and scratched at some irritated skin on his arm. He’d just watched the Hammerclaws leave and there’d been no sign of Halloran. Whiteheat were due in-pouch imminently and they were the only other squadron flying today. Ground forces were already deployed and Kirby had arranged for the flight deck to be retracted until the squads returned. Halloran didn’t have much time.
‘Probably overslept again,’ muttered Moeller and chuckled at his own joke.
It was at the moment that Marie O’Regan led the Whiteheats out onto the flight deck that he decided he wanted Max to escape. If he found a way to expose the truth about Landfill, which he undoubtedly would if he could, it would be expensive for Moeller, but that would be outweighed by seeing Kirby falling flat on his smug, entitled face. It would probably be enough to take him from the race for the next behemoth command post.
‘Ah yes, I knew there was another reason I went to see Inferno-X . ..’
The Whiteheat drakes were roaring and kicking their pens, the shuddering thumps against the metal echoing around the flight deck. They could feel their pilots when they were suited up, every filament live and broadcasting stimulus to the drake mind and nervous system. The pilots were hurrying to their respective pens, their flight crews waiting to open the doors, check their suits and lube levels and disconnect the data feeds.
Moeller’s gaze wandered further up the flight deck to Martha’s pen with its guard of twelve military police. There were others guarding every entrance to the flight deck including Flight Command. It made for an impressive net but Max had very smart people helping him out, and there were other ways onto alpha deck if you had the right connections.
Still, getting into Martha’s pen wouldn’t be easy. Moeller let his gaze wander back down the flight deck. And there he was: trotting up the deck dead centre like he was just a little late to Whiteheat’s party. Moeller wondered how long it would be before someone counted the crew and realised he was surplus to requirements.
Halloran put a hand to his ear as he ran then tapped the side of his head and spread his hands. Moeller opened his p-palm and tapped up the com feeds, selecting the open com. Whiteheat pilots were looking round to see who the focus of attention was.
‘. . . you are still dark, call sign guest. Are you picking me up at all? More hand signals appreciated.’
Halloran wobbled a hand then put a finger to his lips.
‘If I understand it, transmission is intermittent and quiet. We have no data feed, repeat, your suit is dark. You need to get your spare. Signal acknowledgement.’
Halloran wobbled his hands again and kept on coming. He was halfway up the Whiteheat pens now and with all their doors open and the first drakes coming out onto the deck, it was a matter of time before the maths didn’t add up.
‘Come on, Max,’ whispered Moeller. ‘Make me proud.’
There was no open announcement but just as he’d begun to hope, Moeller saw Mips disengaging from entrance guard and begin to move on Max from three directions. Moeller wanted to shout a warning but all he could do was bite his lip and pray Max had some idea what to do. For a few horrible, yawning seconds, Max didn’t notice them at all but then he hesitated, checked behind him and broke into a sprint.
Moeller stepped to the front of the gallery, gripped the rail hard and stared.
There were six of them in front of him and a few more were coming from behind, but he couldn’t worry about them. He was in the midst of the Whiteheat drake pens and the edges of the runways were becoming ever more crowded with reptilian predators. Max knew he wouldn’t be able to break the ring of Mips so he ran to his right across the one hundred and forty metre wide deck The shouts to stop were lost in the bellows of drakes and the stamping of taloned feet ringing loud on the bone floor. Over the PA, Kirby’s voice — he thought it was Kirby’s — ordered him to give himself up. The level of noise was rising sharply and Max had to concentrate on his pursuers, coming in fast, straight down the middle of the runway. They were coming way too quickly down the empty space and were just fifty metres away. Max needed help . .. and he never doubted he’d get it.
Dead ahead, a drake with signature aquamarine blue flares running down its neck, stuck its head out of a pen.
‘O’Regan . ..’He really should ask how she’d got those flares approved . .. ‘Come on, show you can see me.’
Max waved his arms and ripped his hood back off his head, hoping they had some notion of what had happened to him. O’Regan saw him. Her drake ducked her head and moved swiftly towards him, head glancing back and forth, indicating she knew where the Mips were. Max took a deep breath and ran on, trusting their instincts wouldn’t let them down.
O’Regan’s drake opened her mouth and emitted a battering roar. Max caught the force of her foul breath full in the face and loved it. It was a warning: drakes on the runway, clear the deck. O’Regan brought her drake round. Her head reared up, giving clear passage for Max. Thirty metres the other way, her tail slewed around low and fast, making an onerous ‘whoosh’.
All but one of the Mips saw it coming and scattered backwards or leapt the swinging, spiked tail. The other took a glancing blow in mid-calf and was thrown across the deck, tumbling over to lie screaming in pain, one leg at a horribly unnatural angle.
Max ran under the drake’s neck and turned left to run up the deck towards the Inferno pens. Ahead of him was a mass of reptilian bodies, mostly broadside to him, all waiting the call to move onto the runway and providing an excellent barrier to his pursuers. He loved Whiteheat; they were a great squadron.
The Mips were regrouping and moving in from his left. Kirby was relaying his position but his people were more cautious now, the cries of their broken comrade still echoing from the bone arches above. Max slid under one gently lifted tail, hurdled another laid down for him and broke into the brief space between Whiteheat and Inferno-X pens. His pursuers were converging from ahead again now, as well as from the left. It was tight.
He made the Inferno pens and became aware of a growing roar from drakes up and down the flight deck, as if they knew he was running for his life, for all their pilots’ lives, and were willing him to succeed. It was weird, like running through a freeze-frame. Every drake on the runway was looking at him. Every flight deck crew was transfixed. The gallery was packed, as if the best live event ever was going on below them.
‘Enjoy the fucking show, Kirby,’ muttered Max.
The pens were in back-to-back pairs with back-to-back tech areas in between. He only had two pairs to pass before reaching Martha but it looked a tall order. Mips were running down the rank towards him. Others were forming a ring around Martha’s pen again, zapons buzzing greedily.
Max ran past the first pair of pens, belonging to Valera and Stepanek. Drakes battered their heads hard against the windows along the Inferno run, further disconcerting and distracting already nervous military police.
Max took his cue and leapt into the tech areas that came next. He dodged through monitoring equipment, feed control stations and over the feed and power lines that spread like exposed roots across the floor. He hitched over the rail dividing the two techs as Mips came in on his left, knocking the sophisticated kit aside, hollering for him to stop.
Using the side door of Roberts’ pen, which partnered Martha’s, he put a foot on the lock wheel and propelled himself upwards, just getting the tips of his fingers over the edge of the low roof that covered the door before sloping sharply up to accommodate a drake standing on hind legs in the pen. He was heading for the roof access ladders, which the maintenance teams apparently used only very rarely to fix fans and suchlike.
The Mips were on him now. They didn’t bother with words, just cocked their zapons to strike. Max kicked one in the face and pulled himself up hard, getting an elbow onto the roof. Inside the pen, Roberts’ drake was going crazy, talons hammering at the metal and bone walls, sending shivers through the structure.
A zapon wha
cked his trailing ankle and he jerked, his muscles contracting, body hinging violently at the waist as the pulse fled through him. He gripped the rough bone and metal mesh roof desperately, finding some unexpected upward momentum in the wake of the strike; and managed to pull himself up far enough to roll to temporary safety. He twitched on his back for a moment before hauling himself unsteadily to his feet.
‘Shit.’
He steadied himself and climbed the ladder up to the pen roof proper, his body barely under his control. He could hear the Mips gathering themselves to climb up after him. The cacophony of drakes was undimmed, but Kirby’s voice could still just about be heard over it.
Max reached the top and half trotted, half shambled across towards Martha’s pen. She was silent; asleep he assumed. His body still ricocheted with the electric pulse, his head hurt and his eyes swam. He forced in deep breaths, trying to relax tight muscles. It didn’t entirely work Movement on his left. Mips were at the roof line. It was time to pray for maintenance sloth. He scrambled across to Martha’s pen, Kirby’s voice booming out again in a lull in the drake tumult. Below him, Whiteheat began to take off, the beat of wings and the stamping of feet accelerating along the runway were the soundtrack of his life. He craved the open skies, and he was so close.
Max reached his goal and stopped, looking down at the damaged ventilation fan. He could see Martha curled up, her form flickering between the slow sweeps of the fan blades. Mips were surrounding him now.
‘Nowhere to go,’ said one. ‘Give it up.’
Max smiled, feeling his heart beat fast as the last of the zapon charge dissipated.
‘Any of you boys and girls want to join me, you’re more than welcome.’
Max raised his right foot and brought it down hard on the hood of the fan. Once, twice, three times. The fan brackets screeched and buckled. The weakest sheared and the whole unit fell into the pen, bouncing harmlessly from Martha’s back.
Max didn’t pause. He put his arms tight to his sides, feet together and jumped down after it. The moments before he landed on Martha’s flank scales were full of the glorious scent of her; the heat of her pen; the warm red glow of the heater lights; and the strong smell of her waste in the slurry channel.
The fall was from no great height, six metres and change and then down onto the slope of her flank. He relaxed as he struck and slid into a slightly untidy heap on the heated floor. Looking up as he rose and brushed himself down, he saw the Mips crowded round the opening.
‘Come on down, join the party.’
‘No need, you moron. You’re caught. Thanks for the assist.’
Max smiled and trailed his hand lovingly along Martha’s scales. He wiped at damp eyes and felt whole once again. The pain of his separation from her was gone and he breathed her in, letting himself dream of the open skies. He moved slowly, enjoying the touch and the edges of warmth in his mind. He paused at the feed lines, staring down at them, seeing them as parasites sucking Martha’s life away to the beat of Kirby’s warped heart. He bent down and uncoupled them.
‘Not any more.’
He walked round to her head that was partially tucked into a fold in her left wing. He could feel his suit energising with the closeness of her. All he needed was one thing. He knelt by her closed eyes.
‘Come on, baby, wake up. Time to fly.’
The flight deck was quiet. Whiteheat was gone, the rest of them knew that Max and Martha were together. Kirby’s voice on the PA and over his personal com was finally unimpeded by reptilian interference.
‘Max,’ he said, his voice soft and full of regret. ‘That was one hell of a run. You’re one of a kind, I’ll give you that. I don’t think anyone else could have got as far. But it’s done now, okay? Fun’s over. Whiteheat is sky-high and the tail closure cycle has begun. There’s no way off, Hal-X. So come on. Walk out, come up to Flight Com and let’s put this straight.’
‘I haven’t even started,’ said Max over the com. He stroked the top of Martha’s head and felt the merest shiver in response. ‘That’s it, baby.’
‘The fact is,’ continued Kirby and Max wasn’t at all sure the ExO was really speaking to him. ‘There has been a series of unfortunate . . . misunderstandings, problems blown out of proportion . .. but it’s nothing that can’t be straightened out. We all want you back in the pouch, one of Inferno-X. But this isn’t the way, Max. We’ve got to do things right. Step out and talk to us.’
Max bit his lip. The bastard was convincing and he couldn’t deny he was tempted. He pulled in a deep cleansing breath and reached out with his mind, searching for Martha’s. His whole body warmed, his suit channelled energy around his muscles. Martha’s eye flickered and opened and she regarded him with such knowledge that he gasped.
‘There you are, princess.’
‘What the fu—’ Kirby’s voice over the PA cut off abruptly.
It would be magnificent up in Flight Com. Lights and warnings would be triggered; neural activity readouts would be fizzing; physical status monitors would be moving from red to green. Max moved to stand in front of Martha.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Kirby hissed over the suit com.
‘Too late,’ said Max. ‘It’s all I’ve dreamed of since you shut me in Landfill. Now it’s my turn to do whatever the hell I want. Best get your people away from the pen door.
Max could almost see Kirby’s writhing fury and he was certain Flight Com was alive with colourful language. Martha began to push herself up to a sitting position, leaning back on her hind legs and tail and raising her front claws off the ground. She lifted her head gingerly on her glorious long neck, the sedative still live in her system.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Max?’ asked Kirby, the conciliatory tone back again. ‘There’s nothing out there. No food, no water, no drake feed. You’re flying out to die.’
‘Tell me how that’s worse than what you planned for us.’
Martha’s head swam on her neck. She was struggling to hold it up. Her neck shuddered under the strain but she managed to move it away from her chest pouch.
‘Well done, princess.’
Max climbed her body and triggered the pouch release. It creaked open jerkily, the effort causing Martha to shift her talons, searching for balance. Max paused before climbing into the pouch, his dry suit buffing uncomfortably against the receptor space.
‘Sorry, Martha. Almost there.’
Martha released more secretions, helping him slide into the sleeves and settle his back. She rattled phlegm in her throat and Max reached out with his mind, trying to encourage her, feed her energy. The pouch closed and he felt the familiar thrill of connection. Every part of her was open to him and he could sense the sluggishness of her muscles as she fought the sedative.
‘Max,’ said Kirby. ‘The tail’s closing. You can’t get out.’
‘Lucky I don’t know how long it takes to complete the cycle. No, wait, I do, you idiot.’
‘No one’s unlocking the pen, Max,’ said Kirby. ‘You can’t get out.’
Max laughed. ‘I’m in a fire drake, dickhead. I don’t need someone to let me out. Better get your people clear.’
‘Stand down, Halloran. That’s an order. Leave this behemoth and I’ll have you shot down.’
‘You lost the right to command me when you lied to me; you lost the right to command everyone in Inferno-X and every drake pilot on the HoG, sir. Five seconds.’
Max brought Martha’s head round to the pen door. He could see Mips sprinting for cover. Martha’s vison wasn’t pin-sharp but she responded to his suggestions and opened her mouth. Her fuel lines swelled, though Max could tell her reserves were depleted.
Max imagined a full-spread flame delivered over maximum range. Heat bloomed briefly and Max’s vision filled with fire. Martha’s ducts spewed flame across the short gap with enough pressure to carry seventy metres across open sky.
Steel and bone mesh and glass were obliterated. The pen door exploded outwards in a hail of
sparks and fire. Alarms rang, sprinkler systems kicked in and safety bulkheads slammed shut, sealing off the flight deck.
Max bent his toes and raised one leg minutely. Martha swayed, but then marched out of her pen through fire and melted bone and out onto the evacuated flight deck. They moved ponderously onto the runway; turning Martha was akin to directing a drunk round corners. He prayed she’d be able to take off.
‘Last chance, Halloran,’ said Kirby.
‘Put Moeller on.’
‘What?’
‘Put him on.’
Max focused hard down the runway, seeing the tail making its gentle decline and knowing he still had a couple of minutes to get airborne. Martha was trembling and held her neck in an ‘s’ shape for support.
‘You can do it, baby. It’s just you and me, same as always.’
Martha rumbled her pleasure and settled towards her ready stance.
‘Hal-X, Flight Com.’
‘Sorry it’s come to this, sir.’
‘Me too, son. You know we’ll hunt you down. There’s no escape . .. we’ll track you.’
‘Copy that, Flight Com.’
‘You can still turn back.’
‘No I can’t, sir.’
‘Copy, Hal-X.’
Max switched off his com and let his sense of Martha fill him. Her breathing was even but shallow, her pulse raised. He could feel the tremble in her body and sense the sluggish state of her mind. And everyone on the flight deck could see her neck swaying and dipping as she struggled to keep her head steady.
He wanted nothing more than to stand her down but instead, he moved his legs forward, bent his body slightly and suggested speed. Martha barked a muted roar and set off down the runway. She leaned hard over with each pace, rolling uncomfortably from side to side, gathering speed slowly while she fought against falling.
Max gave her everything he had, trying to steady her, keep her running in a straight line. But she veered away continuously one way or the other, staggering occasionally when she tried to compensate and she must have looked for all the world like a sand-head after an allnighter in Gargan’s.
Heart of Granite Page 25
