Diem Infamia Chapter 15
It felt good to be tasting hard vacuum, the deadly embrace of space brushing up against the armourglass of his cockpit. All around was the lethal cold and burning sunlight, mixed with radiation and cosmic rays but Marco loved it anyway. He soared through the infinite black without trepidation, for a brief moment free to chart his own destiny.
Around him his Fury interceptor, 'Lightning bolt', clutched him in its metallic heart, sheltering him from the deadly environment. His pressure suit gripped his body in its customary way and his ears throbbed with the roar of the engines and the hissing of his air mix. His neural shunt fed his brain with a stream of system updates and auspex scans, making him one with the interceptor's spirit. This was no simulation, this was real, he could feel the difference in his bones.
Marco's awareness hovered over his auspex feed, focussing upon the fighters of the 171st Wing. They flew in a tight formation, four arrowheads of five fighters each while behind them the red orb of Greater Tectum shrank, the gas giant becoming ever smaller as they soared away from it. This was the Holies first real excursion and Marco was glad of it. Somewhere out there the flotilla they were due to embark with waited them, already manoeuvring to achieve escape velocity and sail off into deep space. The 171st could have embarked earlier but Marco had exercised his right to meet them en-route. The rookies needed some real flying experience and a deck landing on a carrier was the best way to do it.
Marco swept his attention over his squadron again then voxed, "Pious-5 you're drifting too close to your wingman, keep your distance Wesker."
A distressingly young voice came back, "Understood".
Marco sensed the lad was struggling and stated, "Remember to check your neighbour's markings. There's a fuel port just ahead of the cockpit, keep that aligned with his forward stabiliser wing and you'll know you're in the sweet spot."
Wesker's flight stabilised as he found the sweet spot but Yarka called from behind Marco in a flat monotone, "Course correction coming up, heading 331 mark 090."
"Look alive," Marco called over the vox, "Nice and smooth. Commence turn on my mark: three, two, one⦠mark."
Smoothly the Wing turned, each fighter spinning to the new vector and blasting away with burst of plasma wash. The overall effect was like a flock of birds wheeling through an evening sky and it made Marco smile as he called, "Nicely done, that was precision flying. Keep your eyes peeled, our ride is out here waiting for us."
Darrio called from the chin turret, "Maybe we'll make real pilots out of them yet."
Marco however didn't reply for he was frowning in consternation. The course correction had gone well but as he thrust he'd felt an unusual flutter in his controls. He could sense something was off through his neural connection to the interceptor and said, "Yarka, I'm getting a wicked shimmy."
The FSO was deeper in his connection to the Machine Spirit and replied, "Confirmed, port drive coil has become misaligned. Servitor, correct the error."
"Compliance", came the voice of V10-654-a from the rear, where the automaton lived in the minuscule crawlspace between the twin engines.
Marco knew the cyborg would be extending mechandrites into the machinery, even as they flew and a few seconds later the flutter disappeared. Marco gripped his controls calmly and was not distressed; such events were far from uncommon. No matter how diligently a ground crew of peons tended to a Fury, glitches and gremlins were inevitable. Fury's were fighting machines, living at the edge of tolerance and constantly battered, one of the reasons a Fury kept a repair servitor on board. The Mark IVc sat in the middle of the range of Fury designs, bigger than the two-man template favoured in Battlefleet Gothic but smaller than the long-range recon patterns of the Sabbat worlds, some of which even carried an Astropath on board. Marco loved the Mark IVc, it made him feel alive to fly one, the idea that he had been considering giving this up for a desk job seemed farcical to him.
Suddenly Darrio called out, "I think I can see them."
Marco checked his auspex, which had far greater range than a feeble human eyeball, and found they were indeed closing into visual range of their destination. Naturally his FSO had been sending vox clearances for some time, they wouldn't be allowed to approach else wise, but it was time to speak directly to their conveyance.
Marco switched frequencies and called, "Flotilla 1011 this is Wing Commander of the 171st, requesting guidance."
Marco was surprised when a soft feminine voice came back, "Come in 171st, this is Averof flight control responding. We've been expecting you."
That was the voice of the officer who would be directing the Fighter Wing in action. To avoid confusion and misunderstandings it was customary for a single flight controller to direct a formation's strike craft, passing orders from dozens of superiors through a single channel of communication. Since no one person could stay on watch forever a number of officers would rotate their watches but to save confusion they would all be referred to as Averof control. This particular one was certainly a nice voice, he reflected, and he was sure his junior pilots would be drawing up all kinds of mental images of the person attached to it.
Marco focussed on the task at hand and called, "Copy Averof control, 171st Wing is requesting sanctuary."
"Confirmed," the warm voice came back, "Steer to course 190, mark 000, burn full thrust for forty seconds then reduce to one third."
Marco relayed the order then led the Wing onto the new heading. Rendezvousing in space was a complex dance of position, angles and speed, it was not enough to cross the same space at the same time, they had to achieve roughly the same velocity when they met. If they simply pointed their noses at the right spot and thrust continuously, then the difference in relative velocities when they arrived would see them fly past the flotilla and off into the endless tracks of space.
Marco felt G-forces tugging at him as the Wing came into the right vector and at the appropriate moment he reduced thrust. The Wing was now running parallel to the flotilla, moving slightly slower than the great ships, so that they seemed to drift past. Marco applied a touch to his controls, spinning until his Fury was aligned upright with the ships. It was a conceit in zero-gravity to keep ships synchronised but something about the human brain couldn't shake notions of up and down.
To his left cruised the Averof, a Lunar class cruiser several kilometres long. She looked immense, a warrior queen of the void covered in thick armour and mighty guns. Over the vox Pious-4, pilot Antar called, "That lady certainly got some big guns."
"Keep it clean," Marco snapped for he had seen Battleships up close and knew she was a mere midweight in the Imperial Navy.
The Averof slowly moved past them and Marco spied a formation of Cobra Torpedo destroyers in the distance and a dozen or so cargo transports, becoming mere specks in the open reaches of space. But then a much more unusual sight pulled past them, a light cruiser of a pattern he had never seen before. She was somewhat shorter than a Dauntless, and a lot bulkier around the gunwales, with no sign of lances or torpedo tubes. Yet she was festooned with gun batteries, bristling out of her hull in a profusion of stubby barrels. Marco eyed the strange vessel and mused, "That must be the Spartan."
Darrio replied, "Looks like she has some teeth. I wonder what she can do?"
"We'll find out soon enough," Marco replied, "But let's land first."
As if on cue two more ships hove into view, smaller and far less impressive. Averof control announced over the vox, "Fighters are to split up, Saint and Cleric Squadrons will embark on the Choregos, Pious and Pastor are to proceed to the Phylarch."
"Confirmed," Marco replied.
The ships were converted merchantmen, their hulls stripped out to make room for the equipment and hanger spaces necessary to support Fury Interceptors and even then it would take two of them to sustain a whole Fighter Wing. No mere shuttle bay could sustain a fighting craft of this calibre, even a cruiser the size of the Averof would have to sacrifice a significant portion of her firepower to take them in. The escort carriers looked ramshackle, tired and worn, probably already at the end of a long career before they were converted to a role they were never designed for in the first place.
"What a heap of junk," came the voice of Pious-3, pilot Dimual, "It's a bucket."
"That bucket is your new home," Marco snapped, "Saint and Cleric, break off and head for the other one. Pastor, take the port bay, Pious will go starboard. Now pay attention, you've simulated this a hundred times but watch how I do it and copy me exactly."
Marco feathered his throttle as the Phylarch came alongside, matching velocity until the carrier seemed to be standing still. Marco saw five hanger doors slide open along the flank but held back and called, "Averof control, this is Pious-leader, requesting landing clearance."
"Confirmed," the voice of the controller came back, "Bay is clear, you have a free run. Hands on approach, call the ball."
Marco gritted his teeth, there would be no sophisticated machine spirit assistance from a crude Escort carrier, he would have to do this by hand. He saw the first hanger door light up with a ring of green floodlights and voxed, "Copy, I see the ball, commencing approach."
Slowly he inched his Fury nearer, eyes fixed on the green lights as his landing skids extended. The lights were carefully positioned so that he had to stay in a narrow corridor, if he strayed too far the lights on one side would turn orange, if he saw red he would have really screwed up and would have to immediately abort. His hands felt clammy inside his gloves, no matter how many times one did this a carrier approach was always nerve-wracking, but he kept a steady hand and the green lights passed without incident. An electric tingle passed over him as they penetrated the atmospheric integrity shield, then they were inside the bay.
Marco cut his drives as the artificial gravity seized them and fired his ventral thrusters to brake their landing as the skids touched the bare metal deck. Instantly Marco's hands ran over the control panel and he announced, "Cutting power."
Yarka was doing the same and announced, "Power cells locked down, fuel lines clamped, purging plasma drives with coolant. Servitor, confirm engines are safe."
"Confirmed," came the dreary voice of the servitor from the rear.
Lastly from the turret Darrio announced, "Lasers locked down, not that they were ever unlocked."
Marco ignored the testy gunner and voxed, "Pious-leader is awaiting Peons."
He leaned back in his seat as a flurry of ground crew hastened to them, dragging pallets of gear with them. A red-robed Tech-priest came with them, swinging a heavy incense burner. Everybody sat patiently as the Adept blessed the 'Lightning bolt' after its journey, appeasing its spirit with ancient chants. After a few minutes he seemed satisfied and the peons rushed up to begin the mechanical work and free the pilots from their cockpit.
Marco waited as they opened the cockpit and helped him decouple from the seat. He winced slightly as they removed his spinal cables and neural shunt, the loss of input a sharp shock, but he was glad to get out and stretch his legs. The Peons were far more interested in the Fury than the organic crew and seemed disinterested as Darrio opened his turret and threw out three duffle bags, it being the only place they could store personal effects. Marco grabbed his bag, containing clothes, a few datacrystals and a data-reader, then led them out with only the slightest wobble to his stride. He had served on escort carriers before and knew the pilot's quarters would be nearby and sure enough it was a straight run from the bays to their new home.
He stepped inside to find a meagre set of chambers, a common room with bare metal chairs and tables, a briefing room, a pair of toilets and bunk rooms, each with four metal bunkbeds. There was no sign of any showers, a kettle for recaff or any form of entertainment. Marco hadn't expected anything less, the Navy wasn't big on thrills, but he knew in a few days the pilots would find ways to acquire or trade for items to personalise the space.
Darrio immediately threw his bag onto a top bunk and called, "Dibs!"
Marco ignored him as he saw his fellows from Pious and Pastor squadrons filing into the quarters, eyeing up the meagre facility with horrified expressions. He saw Varce among them, grinning evilly at their dismay as he announced, "What were you expecting, a gourmet buffet laid out for you, served by nubile slave-girls from Pascum? This is the sodding Imperial Navy, there's no frills for the likes of us!"
Marco faced the lot of them and concurred, "He's right, but once you get to know the crew you'll find there's always someone willing to trade for personal items. Just steer clear of the crew's moonshine, they brew rotgut out of cleaning solvents, it'll burn through you like battery acid if you're not used to it. Anyone who makes themselves unfit for duty will be thrown off the ship and will have to walk home."
Faces grinned at that and Marco knew they would soon settle in. He drew in a breath then continued, "You did well on your first landing, but the real trick will be to do under fire. We'll debrief soon but first Varce will go and find us some mops and a sheet, you void-virgins have a tradition to uphold."
