The big guns get brought out as CODA responds to civilian casualties, and in this action-heavy chapter the dog soldier Kalija finds herself confronting what she really wants to be...

Okay, and we're on to chapter 4 out of (so far) 6 in The Mighty Wind Arises, which definitely puts us closer to the ending than the beginning. We also meet an old friend, one of the characters from Steel and Fire and Stone! This is the chapter in which some smut was supposed to happen, and I've decided that this will be a clean novel. Heavens, no! My next story will have twice the smut to make up for it! Should I include the omitted scene as a bonus for y'all? Let me know! Thanks as always to :iconSpudz: for his help in going above and beyond the call of duty to ensure the successful posting of this chapter.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

The Mighty Wind Arises, by Rob Baird — Ch. 4, "Once, twice and again!"

---

As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled --
         Once, twice and again!
And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up
From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
This I, scouting alone, beheld,
         Once, twice, and again!

As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled --
         Once, twice and again!
And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back
To carry the word to the waiting Pack,
And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track
         Once, twice and again!

As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-Pack yelled
         Once, twice and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark -- the dark!
Tongue -- give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
         Once, twice and again!

— Rudyard Kipling, “Hunting song of the Seeonee pack"

More than three hundred kilometers over the surface of Pike, Task Force Kilo Six-Zero swept by once every ninety-one minutes and seventeen seconds. It made for a relatively narrow launch window — something Kalija was keenly aware of.

Barton Glenn was aware of it, too; her bombardier was on his fourth cup of coffee over breakfast. Neither of them had slept particularly well. “Nothing this time," he finally decided. “If they want to launch, it'll be at least another hour and a half."

“They have to."

“Probably," he allowed. “But not for another hour and a half."

They lapsed back into silence. Most humans found this uncomfortable; Kalija was sometimes grateful for Barton's more laconic spells. Dogs were notoriously quiet — happy to let silence speak for itself, and bad at the peculiarly human affinity for smalltalk.

This was trouble enough that they'd spent a few lessons on it, in the nakath school she'd grown up in. “Humans," the teacher had explained, “aren't good at body language. They use 'smalltalk' to convey the sort of details we do naturally."

Treating human mannerisms as a failing was relatively common in the colony, and being free of that superiority complex was something else she was sometimes grateful for. Still, it was nice that nobody was forcing her to talk. Another half an orbit, and another cup of coffee, passed in silence.

A sound at the door stirred both of them into vague interest; the hatchway to the mess opened, and Jasmina Jovanovic stepped inside. “Hey," she said.

“Howdy."

“How's the coffee?"

“Shit," Alamo grunted. “But hot, right?"

Zippo nodded, and poured herself a cup anyway. “Table free?"

“Reckon so."

“You just get off shift?" They all had secondary roles, in the squadron; Kalija handled the budget, and Lieutenant Commander Jovanovic helped to manage the squadron's IT department. Kalija presumed Zippo found this job roughly as exciting as the dog found her own — but it would've been something to focus on, at least, after the mission.

“Yes. You figure it let me take my mind off stuff, Lassie?"

Kalija splayed her ears. “No?"

“Trust me, quarterly evaluations have never seemed quite so pointless. 'Petty Officer Jim Jackoff successfully upgraded software package 10.10.10.10 to 10.10.10.11 across all squadron members' personal computers. The resulting increase in efficiency' — Jesus, Alamo, this coffee is shit." 

“Told you."

Not that it kept her from drinking it. “Where do we even get this from? It must be ten fucking years old." 

“More than fifteen," Kalija said. “It's from the stocks back at DSD Amarillo. We get a discount for taking the old stuff."

“A big discount?"

“Big enough."

Zippo snorted. “Great. Well, I guess we need the money for all those Kraits we're shooting. Oh. Wait..."

“'Resulting increase in efficiency,' ain't that right?" Alamo teased. “We're really efficient when we don't shoot anything."

“You saw after the brief, didn't you?" Jovanovic asked them. “Outside in the hall? After the piss-off said that Congress was going to have to 'consider what had happened' very seriously; all that fucking jazz?" 

The dog had not; she'd still been in shock. “I stayed behind."

“Thought Roulez was going to punch him. God, those Guard fucks... that was just cold blooded. Fucking murderers." She seemed to believe it, too, though the senior aviator didn't appear quite so viscerally affected as Kalija had been.

Barton wasn't quite as phlegmatic, either. “Can't quite get my head around it."

“Sure you can." 

Kalija and her bombardier both looked up at Jovanovic.

She didn't back down. “Oh, come on. You're core, aren't you, Alamo? Terra?"

“Texas," he confirmed. A 'core' territory of the Yucatan Alliance, and part of the confederation since Congress had first convened.

“Bet the dog's not. I'm not either, I'm from fucking Borodin — dome city on Kenna III. They mine arjunite, and that's the only damn reason we're even an affiliate colony. What about you, Elvis?"

“I'm not core. I'm from an all-moreau hamlet. But my dad is a citizen."

“So?" Barton asked.

“So all the 'liberty and prosperity' shit is great, if you're core. Or you've got a nice corporation sponsoring you. Care to guess who has more votes in Congress, Borodin or Microsoft? Golden rule, Alamo."

“'He who has the gold,' right?" The Texan shrugged. “Still."

“You heard the piss-off. Pike was under the control of the corporations for two hundred years. They're tired of it — that's why Governor Korablin won." 

Kalija flicked an ear, thinking back to their first briefing. “In a contested election."

“They say that, sure. You notice the protests are all coming from the corpies and the landowners and shit, though. People who have money to pay for CODA insurance and PMCs? Don't see much of that from the Territorial Guard — which doesn't mean they're not fuckers," she was quick to add. “But it does mean you gotta kinda understand the resentment."

“Resentment is one thing..." 

“Yeah, but humans have a breaking point. You dogs must love it. You stick around. Or... wait..." Zippo's smile was more of a sneer. “It seems like every other month I hear about some doggy protest or something like that. Blowing up factories and stuff..."

The dog's ears went all the way back while she pondered. “My colony was founded by revolutionaries, yes..."

“Bloodless revolution?"

It all depended on who you asked. Mayor Iskoshunja had been one of the leaders of that revolt, back on the planet of Jericho; to hear her tell it, the Commonwealth of the Enlightened had done only what was necessary to survive. Some of the others, though — moreaus who had been on Jericho but not part of the rebellion — were more skeptical. It was certainly an interesting point that no corporate humans had survived to tell their side of the story. 

Kalija's silence was just as telling. “Just how it goes. CODA doesn't fight on the side of the little guys," Zippo finished.

Alamo didn't argue the point directly. “You're a little guy."

“It's the best game in town," the woman answered. “That doesn't mean they play it clean. Sure as hell aren't going to find me fighting for Starlight or any of that bullshit."

“Happy to know you ain't a sleeper agent." Alamo looked into his empty cup, and looked to be debating refilling it. “Fuck. I'm gonna take a piss. Let me know when the good espresso shows up."

Jovanovic rolled her dark eyes, and watched his departure. “How's he working out?"

Kalija cocked her head at the suddenness of the question. “Good. I mean... he's good at what he does, I think."

“Watch yourself. He has a bit of a reputation for going through pilots."

“Reputation?"

“The first quit after the Board. The second quit three hops into the last tour. The third... well. The third decided he was so tired of flying with Alamo he tried out for Kestrels, instead. The fourth... well. The fourth is a real dog, let me tell you..."

As with so many such comments, heard from hundreds of people over the years, Kalija had a hard time telling whether it was meant in jest or not. She settled on the sort of detached, self-deprecating humor that served as a sort of armor. “Arf."

“Ever wish you weren't?"

Once again she cocked her head. “A dog? No. They have an insult for that, in dogspeak — they call them, uh... lona. 'Shaven.' Even if I did want it, it's not something I can change. What would the point be?"

“Well, I suppose it beats the fuck out of me. There aren't many humans who want to be dogs, either... and I'd probably think they were kinda weird if they did."

“Right." 

Having said it, a faint hint of self-awareness slipped over her sharp features. “Bet you've heard that before."

Kalija was becoming more comfortable; her head straightened, and her ears came back up. “I have a conversation like this about once every person, yes. Now you either tell me about the moreaus you had growing up, or you ask me why I joined CODA."

“I know why you joined." 

This wasn't a question Kalija herself could answer, much of the time. “You do?"

“Already said why. Because it isn't perfect, but it's still better than what else is out there. It was like that on Borodin, too. It doesn't surprise me. We do good, Elvis. We just don't always do good enough — that's all. Like this damned coffee." She polished it off, and poured another mug. “I suppose if you don't want to hear about my family pets, we should talk about flying."

“Yeah?"

“Pretty good stuff. You're still a little aggressive. I know why you do that, too. You're trying to stay one step ahead of your bird. The thing with puffins is you can't really kick 'em like that. They don't spur well."

Kalija listened intently, and nodded her long muzzle. “You can't just roll with a missile launch, though."

“No. But the way you pull those break turns, you're bleeding energy way too fast, trying to beat your puffin into the course. Against dumb shit like the Guard has, it probably won't matter, because you have energy to spare. But take the calculator in the NATOPS manual, change your speed and angle a couple percentage points and watch the delta-vs."

“Well... I know that... just..."

“It'll come," Zippo told her. “You've got good intuition. I know the whole thing went to hell at the end, but when we were actually engaged, that was nice work."

“Thanks."

The other pilot shrugged. “Hey, I call it like I see it. Roulez and I probably owe you."

“Owe me what?"

“What do you want?"

Kalija thought, and glanced towards the closed mess hall hatch. “What happened to his last left-seater? Really?"

“He hasn't told you?"

“I don't want to ruin our blossoming friendship."

Jasmina laughed, caught off-guard. “Okay. They really didn't get along. Alamo said Roach was slow, stupid, and reckless. Roach said Alamo was too cautious because of his past — wouldn't take any risks."

She had noted this caution — and Alamo had called her out before, too. “Who was right?"

“Well. Back at the Claw, before we shipped out here, one of the Kestrel squadrons wound up with an opening. And Roach pulled every string he had — this guy, his mom was on the board of some chip company; knew a Congressman who knew a Congressman. I mean, it was ugly. So he gets the opportunity to qual. Non-orbital training op."

“Yeah..."

Zippo held up her hand, and counted off on her thumb and index finger. “So you've got stupid, thinking you should switch airframes just because you don't like who you're bein' lefty to. And you've got reckless, thinking a Kestrel is the right way to go."

“And slow?"

“Well, there Alamo was plain fucking wrong. Here's the story: Roach and his instructor are prosecuting an attack in one of the valleys on the Claw."

There were plenty of valleys on Leeuskloue; it made for effective target practice, and many of the attack pilots trained there — the dog included. “Zoekill Valley?"

“That's the one. Thousand meter hard deck and five hundred knot speed limit. Roach starts the run at the hard deck, doing about six hundred. His instructor tells him to break it off, but of course, he decides to engage. Hits the sound barrier in a shallow dive with his instructor about two klicks behind, screaming at him..."

“And then?"

“For whatever reason, Roach decides he does need to slow down. And promptly executes a radical lithobraking maneuver."

The dog blinked a few times. “Oh. Oh dear."

“No better way to slow down on short notice. Anyway, for the rest of our shore time Alamo didn't have a left-seater, so we passed him around the squadron. He's not so bad."

The hatch opened again, and Barton stepped back in.

“Zippo says you're not so bad," Kalija told him.

“Good for you, I reckon." 

He had a strange look when he said it, though, that put the dog on edge. “What does that mean?"

“Just saw Bucky." He held up his hand, to keep them from saying anything further, and a few seconds later the intercom chime sounded. “There we go."

“Attention all Trailblazers," Commander Fuller's voice said. “Assemble immediately in Ready Room Two." 

Immediately, to the squadron's credit, took little more than a few minutes; even coming right from the mess hall, the three were not the first to arrive.

Commander Fuller quelled the rumbling and called them to order. “We're going to skip the briefing from the p —" Bucky deftly caught himself, and coughed. “From Dr. Müller. We can sum it all up pretty simply. They're calling what happened yesterday the 'Indigo Hills Massacre.' It wasn't the only one. Guard bombers leveled the docks in Firo and hit six other towns, including what seems to have been a refugee camp. Public sentiment in Congress and most of the colonial ecclesia is calling for action." 

The Alliance Congress, he went on to explain, had voted in an emergency session to recognize the separatists at Aurora as being the sole legitimate government in Pike. Simultaneously, the Colonial Defense Authority had been given an expanded mandate to protect the separatists — with typical political flair — at all costs.

“Welcome to 'all costs,'" Fuller continued, and brought the big hologram to life. “Literally speaking, since nobody knows how the Aurorists are going to pay for this yet. I know you're not so good at paying attention, so I can sum it up to you in two sentences. Ready, flyboys?"

The room rumbled some form of grudging assent.

“Right now, the Territorial Guard's air force numbers over five hundred aircraft, including two hundred brand-new J-254E 'Saker' fighter-bombers. Tomorrow, they will have none."

It was a very grandiose statement. As soon as he began explaining the mission, though, Kalija could tell that it had been planned for some time — indeed, perhaps since their arrival. There was nothing rushed about it, and nothing haphazard.

This, she decided, was for the better: the Bellau Wood was committing starfighters from nearly every single squadron — so many that they couldn't all be launched on one orbit. The first group would launch and then wait patiently for the task force to come around again.

By that time, the fighters would be a hundred kilometers closer to the surface. After a preliminary orbital strike targeted the Guard's command and control centers, they were to disable any remaining air-defense systems to clear the path for the second wave, hitting the atmosphere twenty minutes later.

“That'll be us, and the Intruders of VA-171. Our squadron specifically will be striking four cosmodromes in the southern part of the continent. We have to use Intruders for this, because CODA is still requiring positive identification of hostile equipment before we engage. It should be a formality. Of course, what's life without a little excitement?"

The principle excitement, to hear Bucky's explanation, was that Fleet Intelligence had not come to an agreement on the true strength of the loyalist air-defense network. It was known to be extensive; targeting the command posts would knock it out for a period of time, but nobody could agree on whether this meant 'days' or 'hours.'

“So we're erring on the side of caution. The squadron is splitting into two groups of six ships each. Each group will hit their first target, move at full speed to the second target, get the hell out, and then regroup. With luck, everybody's back in orbit three hours later. Questions?"

Red raised a hand. “We won't have that much surprise. What happens when they scramble their own planes?"

“We have every F-230 on the Bellau Wood flying cover for us, plus AWAC support, plus COSTAR. You'll also have regular reports from the AWAC, callsign 'Spyglass,' and bogey dopes on request. Also, so we're clear, Ops is passing to COSTAR for this hop, so we don't talk to the Margay. Everything happens locally."

“What about the other guys? Kingdom's out here, right?"

“That's right, Woody." Fuller zoomed the hologram out to show Pike as a little sphere, bathed in the tracks of orbiting objects. “There's a Sanganese task force and a pair of Soviet battlecruisers at different inclinations. It's widely understood that the Sangan Kingdom is providing material support to Pike — including the Sakers — but we don't anticipate their direct involvement. The situation is..." He paused, and finally gestured to the front row. “Dr. Müller?"

They'd skipped any in-depth briefing, and Joscho Müller stayed brief. “It is complicated. The Kingdom has eschewed direct involvement. This looks like a power play from a mid-level syndicate family. They can be more... unpredictable, it's true."

When Müller sat down, Fuller turned back to their maps. “We'll give them about ten minutes' warning before the drop, just in case they might use that 'unpredictability' to intervene. As for the Soviets, well... the two cruisers don't seem to care much, but I'm told that we'll let them know for the sake of politeness."

The Great Orion Soviet, VSRO, was so known for isolation that Kalija was surprised they'd even bothered to monitor the situation. Certainly, no Soviet property or land or citizens had been threatened by the escalation: despite a century of cold war many years before, the Yucatan Alliance and the VSRO were on acceptable, if distant, terms.

After the briefing, the mutt took her briefing card and read it over, and over. With only six hours to launch there was not enough time to sleep; though they retired to their quarters, Kalija and her bombardier instead reviewed and re-reviewed the documentation.

“Looks simple enough," she said, hopefully. Her Intruder was to be laden not with Krait missiles but with heavy 'bunker-buster' rockets — they would take off and descend very close to their maximum weight.

“Mass," Alamo corrected, when she pointed that out. “No such thing as weight." But his heart wasn't in the teasing. “Remember to set your IMCS to compensate for the stress on the hardpoints."

“Hm?"

“Ain't just us, Elvis. You pull too many gees and those rockets will tear off the pylons."

She checked again. Their missiles were a thousand kilograms apiece, and each hardpoint was double-loaded. “So we can't evade, either. At least not early on. This keeps getting better and better, don't you think?"

Barton grunted. “We'll deal. Plan ahead. I should be able to pick up our targets at sixty klicks."

“COSTAR authorizes and we push the IP. Stay low and fast until five out. Pop, climb to four or five thousand..." 

“I program final coordinates on the climb. SADIE should be able to manage that."

“Music on when we start the pop, and I'll stand by with chaff and flare programs. You have locked-in solutions by t-minus five seconds from the apogee."

He took the computer from her to stare closely at the map. “Maybe. Hopefully."

“You'd better."

“COSTAR needs to confirm the targets before the solutions are valid. That's another couple seconds."

“Okay. Then you'll need solutions by t-minus ten. By minus five, we have confirmation. Then I pickle, come off hard left and race for the deck at full throttle before they can shoot back."

“I think I can give you ten seconds. But if we run into any trouble getting a solution..."

“Will we?" 

Barton pursed his lips. “It'll be easier the more altitude we have."

She knew this. To program their missiles, Alamo needed to know the exact location of their target. The Intruder had a sophisticated laser range-finder, and their surface-attack computers contained high-resolution terrain maps of the target area, but even the combination was not infallible. Close to the ground, the shallow slant meant that any adjustment to the laser's angle translated into huge horizontal movement and thereby inaccuracy. Higher up, they didn't have this problem — but they would be visible to everyone, and wasting precious time on the calculations. “Maybe we can be patient. We'll have the Kestrels suppressing any AA..."

“Only have to get lucky once."

“Cheer up," she told him, though she couldn't help but sigh herself.

Even the preflight just confirmed what the two of them already knew. The AGM-459 missiles were six meters long — each of them looked almost like a spaceplane in and of itself. Thermal-protective fairings over the huge rockets made the sleek missiles seem blistered and misshapen.

“'Payback's a bitch,'" Kalija read the message on the missile's nose, scrawled by some ordnanceman. Nobody else would ever see it — the heat of reentry would obliterate the grease even before the missile's final impact.

“Ain't it?"

“I speak from experience," the mutt said, checking off the missiles one by one on her computer.

“About payback?" 

“About being a bitch." 

“Your words." Barton wasn't smiling.

“At least everything looks good." She took Barton's computer from him, confirmed that he'd also found nothing on the walkaround, and handed both to their plane captain, Spaceman English.

Inside the cockpit, everything looked normal, too. Kalija was used to Wagon 510, now; used to the smell of its cockpit, and the little idiosyncrasies in the older airframe's systems. Like the way she had to hold the power button a half-second longer than specified to get the computer to boot up, or the quiet whine from the bearings in one of the climate control fans. 

“Good girl," she murmured, patting the side of the canopy before it closed over her. She always gave it such an affectionate thump, just forward of the latch — once before she took off, and once after they landed. Alamo said nothing; bombardiers were too logical to harbor such superstitions. But like all pilots, she knew it was key to staying alive.

For all the operation's size, there was nothing troubling about the launch except for the time it took. Six other Intruders were cleared ahead of them; they were very nearly the last to leave the Bellau Wood, and sorting out trajectories with the carrier's traffic controllers cost them another few minutes. She was already settled into formation and going through their descent checklist before she had the chance to take stock and glance around, hastened by a whistle from her bombardier.

“Jesus, will you look at that?"

Twenty-four Intruders made for an impressive show. It would be even more impressive when they hit the atmosphere — with a thundering, fiery charge announcing their arrival as sure as any angel's trumpet. “Somebody's not going to be having a good day," the dog agreed. “Can I tell you something, Alamo?"

“It's okay," her bombardier said. “I love you, too."

“Not that." She rolled her eyes, and sighed hard enough that he could hear it. “Little concerned about our descent temps. You checked the profile?"

“Yeah."

“We're heavy. The braking maneuver they've planned isn't going to be enough. We'll hit with a lot of speed to burn off. And those missiles..."

“Should still be ten percent below thermal limits..."

“I know."

“And the thermal limits have a ten percent safety margin."

“I know," she repeated. “Just being careful."

Barton chuckled. They had launched, now; they were committed. His wry humor had returned, the mutt supposed, for lack of any other alternative. “Didn't think you lefties had a careful bone in ya. I'll keep an eye on it, but I think we'll be fine."

She hoped that they would be, certainly. Problems could occur anywhere, but close to the edge of the envelope was where they stopped being mere problems and started being outright catastrophes. Kalija still believed what her instructor had told her: 'the bitch wants to kill you.' That was why the pilot kept such a tight leash.

“Tracker One. Two minutes."

“She's always so damn calm," Alamo groused. “How do you do that?"

“Practice." The dog had to smile, for it was true that Pinball was always calm. Kalija was not, and on balance she was happy about that. On her first few actual missions — the first time she'd been flying with other combat-tested pilots, into unfamiliar territory — she'd worried that things might become too comfortable. Too routine.

No. When they hit the atmosphere it was as nerve-racking as ever. They were fast, the braking maneuver wasn't enough, and she glanced every half-second at the temperature gauges until at last they began to drop. And as soon as Alamo announced that he had his sensors back she was sharply, painfully aware that they were in hostile territory.

“Trackers. Fence check."

“Good?" she asked, and received a click on the radio in answer. Alamo was busy; he looked to be trying to sort several hundred signals all at once. “Tracker Five, fence in."

“Black Rook, Tracker's in play," Pinball announced.

“Black Rook. Tracker, you're cleared to proceed as briefed and hold short at Bowie. Be advised we're still processing assessments from the orbital strikes. Stay in your lanes until we can confirm."

“Alamo, what's up?"

“Okay. They hit thirty-seven separate command centers from the artillery corvettes. I've got no signals from those sites, so let's call that good."

“There's bad?"

“Half the Kestrels have already called in winchester on the air-defense suppression flights, and they're still finding targets." Hence, Kalija supposed, why the mission commander was telling them to stay on a narrow course where the way was guaranteed to be clear. “Also, nobody seems to know whether one of the Jaguars shot down a Guard fighter or not."

“Great." The dog scanned their horizon reflexively, out in the direction where VF-631, the Jaguars, would be flying their air superiority sweep; nothing caught her attention. “I like living dangerously." 

He ignored her sarcasm to answer directly. “I don't."

“Stay positive, Alamo." 

“I positively don't," he muttered. “Better?"

“Better."

“Black Rook. Tracker, the defense network is down and Fletcher reports no signals. You're cleared to push Dorothy. Good hunting."

“Fletcher has exactly one Kestrel with any missiles left," Alamo told her, referring to one of the suppression packages from VFA-995. “So it's a good thing that they can't find anything to shoot, ain't it?"

“Somebody increased their efficiency." Morbid humor; she was already setting up alerts in her augmented vision for any sign of activity that might've been missed. “You have our target?"

“I have where it's supposed to be." Cosmodrome Singer was three hundred kilometers away. “No visual, yet."

“You have the missiles programmed?"

“Can't commit the program without confirmation, remember?" 

Kalija grimaced. “Let me know..."

Pinball separated them into three groups. She volunteered herself and Woody to take the first pass over Singer — a lightning-fast run to gather the information they needed for Black Rook to approve the attack. Kalija and Hobo were on the second run, hopefully close behind.

While they waited, the dog took a look on her own, searching the fuzzy picture for anything out of place. “What's that on thermal? Twenty right, just below that parked hoverdyne?"

“Nothing. Just the way stuff cools after sundown." In other words, she was jumping at shadows. “I'll let you know if I see anything, Elvis."

The squadron commander's Intruder, and her wingman, swept over Cosmodrome Singer at just below the speed of sound. In the wake of their passage the image in her helmet became sharp-edged and clear. Just like it had looked in the briefing — flat tarmac, and twenty or so parked aircraft that were too big to be starfighters. To either side of the landing pads were the heavily armored hangars, a dozen of them in total.

“Five, this is Three." Two lines flashed onto her map of the airbase, one for each cluster of hangars. “When we're approved, let's split up. You take the left ones, I'll take the right ones."

“Five, copy. One pass, south to north?"

“Three, affirmative. Start at Dorothy, then follow that road. I'll go first, you follow to hit the left, and we'll both come off east, towards, uh, what is that, Wichita? Sound good?"

A glance at the terrain map told her this would be as safe as anything else — plenty of places to hide if anyone at the base got clever with their missiles. “Five. Yeah, sounds good. Pop up at..." She clicked her teeth, and added a new marker to their shared datalink. “Point, ah, Alpha-Bravo Six?"

“Yeah. Works for me. Get ready to rock, Elvis."

The next voice came from Drummer, his bombardier. “One, this is Five. Package Alpha is anchored. On signal, will attack south to north. From IP Dorothy, north two-five. One pass, egress east six-zero to point Wichita and we'll stand by for assessment, over."

“Got it, Alamo?"

He shook his head. “Need another minute for these trajectories."

“Computer's sour?" 

“She's just being slow." He thumped his console with the flat of his hand, as though that might spur it back to life. “Wish they'd replace the old girl."

“Black Rook. Tracker Lead, I'm seeing possible civilian aircraft parked in the revetments on the eastern side of the cosmodrome. Can you confirm?"

“Civilian starliners?" Kalija asked her bombardier, while Putnam and the mission commander talked.

“Maybe. At least they were originally. It looks like twelve BV-90s, and some YT-2400s. Standard lighters; orbital capacity or suborbital stuff. The 2400s have to be new."

She magnified her image further. They were definitely big — hundred-passenger ships, probably. “No windows, though. No markings..."

“— but they're unmarked, parked in revetments, and in hostile territory," Pinball was saying.

Black Rook — COSTAR, the Command Operations, Surveillance, Theater Awareness and Reconnaissance outpost in a highly modified Strix somewhere above them — was not in an enviable position. If they were civilian ships, CODA would be liable for needless collateral damage. If they were not, though, they were delaying a mission in which time was of the essence. “Black Rook. Don't reckon the Guard asked at Indigo Hills, did they?"

“Tracker Lead. No." Although Pinball had not been on the mission, Kalija figured she could see what their commander was getting at. “No they did not."

“Black Rook. Tracker, you're cleared to engage."

“Tracker Three, Tracker Five, this is Tracker Lead. You heard him. Cleared hot."

“Five, this is Three. Form up."

She flipped the armament switch on. “Firing solutions, Alamo?"

“Almost." 

“Thirty seconds."

“Don't rush me."

“Three. Inbound Dorothy."

Smooth as silk, she dropped her Intruder onto Hobo's wing, and watched the marker swell closer. There was still nothing threatening in her display. So far, everything was straightforward and clean. “Music." 

“Music," Alamo echoed, and turned their jammers on just in case. “Targets locked." 

Good news; they'd managed to take care of that early, before starting their climb. “Six of them, right?" 

“Yep."

“Ripple all six."

“Sure." He switched to the weapons panel and highlighted six of the AGM-459s, three from each wing. Two more commands was all it took to link them into one sequence. “Program set. Crosscheck?"

The display in her visor confirmed what he'd said. Now just one press of the trigger would knock all six thousand kilograms of ordnance from their hardpoints. “Looks good."

Hobo announced his attack run and added a burst of speed that pulled him away from Kalija's Intruder. The dog added a little brake and some altitude, so that they could watch for any signs of return fire. Nothing. He swept up into the final stage of the maneuver, fired, and pulled away to the east.

Their turn. “Five. In hot." She did the same thing — pushed the throttle forward, almost without thinking about it. Inside her helmet the dog's ears were pricked; she was on the hunt, her teeth ever so slightly bared. The six hangars stood in a neat row; her helmet plotted an appropriate course, with a range counter that marked the right time to fire. 

Ten kilometers. Eight. Five. “Target match green on all six," Alamo said. The missiles were not guided by radar or the Intruder's lasers; they searched for the particular visual object and coordinates that Barton had programmed them with. “Pop."

Kalija pulled back sharply on the stick. The A-17 lurched and swung upwards like it had been snared. She thumbed the trigger switch down, and waited — the targeting computer would take care of the rest automatically. At the very apex of their climb, with a good four kilometers of added altitude, a heavy thump and a sudden feeling of freedom announced the launch of the six missiles. “Away," she confirmed. “Five's off."

More throttle — the Intruder was well past the speed of sound on their sharp dive back to the comfort and safety of the ground cover. For a few seconds longer the six AGM-459s continued the upwards loft that they'd been given. Then they turned.

At a thousand kilograms apiece, they were some of the heaviest missiles the Intruder could carry. Half of it was fuel for their massive engines — blinding, in the dark night sky, pushing them straight down at their helpless targets.

The Pike loyalists had built the hangars well. Thick concrete, multiply reinforced; almost impregnable. Almost. Ten seconds after launch, five hundred kilograms punched straight through, backed by a gigajoule and a half of kinetic energy.

Officially the AGM-459 was called “Zeus," because every strike carried the energy of a lightning bolt. The pilots called them Thwomps, instead — for the sound they were supposed to make. A thermobaric secondary explosive finished the task in a chaotic burst of fire that belied the deceptive precision that had gone into its engineering.

One Thwomp was enough to take out most any fortification; between Hobo and Kalija, the two Intruders had fired twelve. The effect was as though a small, highly localized earthquake had paid a visit to the hangars and tarmac: a precise application of extremely overwhelming force.

If anyone had still been at the cosmodrome, they were too shocked, incapacitated, or dead to return fire. The final two Intruders were carrying AGM-762 stand-off missiles, of a variant loaded with precision submunitions.

Each AGM-762 had seventy-two bomblets, and each of the two A-17s fired four of them. It amounted to six hundred watchful predators, scattered behind the departing Intruders like a swarm of killer bees and hanging in place for several long seconds until their antigravity drives failed.

Like the Thwomps, these were image-guided; the mission brief had specified the acceptable targets. Aircraft with potential military use, fuel tanks, armed hoverdynes, communications antennas, radars, and runway equipment.

They talked to each other, in a burst of electrical chatter. Half of them found targets, untouched by the Thwomps or exposed in the cracked-open hangars. The swarm dove, ending their brief lives in fiery jets of expertly machined high explosive. The remaining bomblets self-destructed in mid-air, leaving nothing that could accidentally detonate later — or be recovered for analysis.

Kalija could see none of it directly. She and Hobo were hidden, close to the ground. Pinball had remained on station to assess the results — though the dog saw nothing in her visor but a chaotic maelstrom of fire and sparks.

“Alamo? How'd that go?"

“Hold up. I'll give you a diff."

The hologram switched to a clean, monochromatic outline of the cosmodrome, with every building and object highlighted. A moment later a new overlay appeared, interpolating every bit of data they had available. Red marked everything that no longer seemed to exist.

Most of the cosmodrome was red. “Ninety-five percent effectiveness," Alamo added. “According to Black Rook. Limited collateral."

This seemed hard to believe, although if she looked closely the dog could tell where private cars and unremarkable buildings seemed to have been spared. “That's... surprising."

“It's convenient," her bombardier corrected.

“Black Rook. Tracker, target is confirmed destroyed. Cleared to Bridger, and let me know when you're there. Good hunting."

Everything — all of the attack, from Pinball's first pass to the final assessment — had taken exactly six minutes. Kalija took a deep breath, and followed Hobo's lead to settle back into formation. Now they were racing at maximum safe speed to Mose Chivers Spaceport, their final goal.

“Halfway done," she said aloud. It sounded almost like a question anyway, so she followed up with another. “How's everyone else doing, Alamo?"

“Bucky has Sooner flight outbound, too. They'll hit their last objective about ten minutes before we do. Everything else seems... okay? No ground fire yet. Guess they did a number on that orbital bombardment."

“Well. Twenty-five minutes to the spaceport." Kalija shook herself, twitching the tension from her muscles and fluffing out her fur. “And then we go home."

“Then we go home."

“That diff, Alamo. Fuck..."

“What about it?"

She looked again, and shook her head. From the thermal imagery they still had, the fires were starting to die — it only confirmed the magnitude of the destruction. “Just hard to believe. Overkill, maybe."

“Air superiority wins wars, Elvis." 

They said that, anyway. It was CODA's method to be clean, and precise — only as much force as was needed, and only where it was needed. All of the Yucatec militaries combined had far fewer soldiers than the Sanganese; what they lacked in numbers they made up for with individual effectiveness.

But that lead had to be maintained at any cost. Her father had not spoken much about his time in the service beyond generalities and amusing stories about dealing with old electronics. In particular, he'd said nothing about the famous battles on Jericho. She'd had to read about it in textbooks — how vulnerable CODA's high-tech walkers were to being overwhelmed by lightly armed soldiers. How close they'd been to annihilation, without the protective cover of their legendary air support.

That, although she'd never told him, was the primary reason she chose to fly the Intruder. She could've been flying Kestrels, or the sharp-nosed, glamorous F-230s — but her mother had been a German shepherd, and her father a Border collie, and she felt a strong protective instinct.

It was not a discomfort with being depended upon that made her uneasy; it was the thought that she might let them down. As they'd let the civilians in the Indigo Hills down. If it took leveling the airfield to prevent that from happening again...

“Tracker Lead. Three minutes to anchor."

“We've got high-res from the last orbital pass," Barton informed her. “This one oughta be easier. As of twenty minutes ago they had fighters parked in the open, plus maybe... eight protected hangars? Nine? This was a civilian place."

“Was?"

He shrugged. “Gotta trust orbital, Elvis."

It wasn't anything she could argue, anyway. As they climbed towards their staging point, she reviewed the newest images. Before, Mose Chivers — named after an early governor — had been the biggest spaceport on the continent's south coast. It was dominated by a huge, ornate terminal building; there were sprawling landing fields, and open-water berths for heavier starliners.

None of those were occupied. Now the port seemed to be mostly deserted. Barricades stretched across the tarmac and, as Barton had indicated, the Guard had reinforced a number of the larger hangars for added protection.

It was not enough, neither by quality nor quantity. The Thwomps would make short work of them, and by her count there were at least a dozen little starfighters parked all the way out in the open, without even revetments. “Don't know what's going to hit them," she said.

“Sucks to pick the wrong side, don't it? Also, just letting you know: Sooner's delayed waiting for confirmation on their target. We'll finish up here first."

“Got it."

“Black Rook. Tracker, cleared to push Bridger."

This time the Kestrels were nowhere to be found at all, but Alamo assured the dog that the other aircraft had not detected anything threatening. On Commander Putnam's orders, she broke away from the rest of the flight, drifting on Hobo's wing so they could be in a position to attack.

“Pinball's on her run," she told her bombardier. “Got a downlink?"

“Downlink's sweet, Elvis." Reassuring, again. “Looks good. Still haven't moved those birds on the ground..."

“If they're smart, they won't." If they were smart, the Guard would've seen what had become of Cosmodrome Singer and known that there was no time left to scramble the fighters. If they were smart, the entire spaceport would be abandoned. They should've been fleeing. 

“Tracker Five, this is Tracker Three. Hard targets in three groups of three apiece — you got that?" 

“Three. Copy, I see it." They were separated by a kilometer or so, across an expanse of open pavement. 

Hobo added in markers to label the three clusters of hangars. “Let's go for one pass, from... west to north-east, I guess. I'll hit group Alpha Bravo One-Six and One-Eight. When I come off, watch for hits, and target Alpha Bravo One-Seven and anything that's left."

She agreed, and waited for Alamo to tell her that he'd programmed the hangars in. “Still no signals?"

“Mixed. Nothing that looks like fire control — guess some comms, but I can't decrypt it."

“Quiet," she said.

“Yeah."

And a minute later, COSTAR gave them permission to attack. If anything this was even simpler than the last run had been — not a peep from any enemy radars. Kalija could even, if she felt like it, convince herself that the spaceport was empty; that the AGM-459s demolished nothing but concrete and unused hardware.

Hobo didn't miss with any of his rockets. Alamo set up a quick program to take out the remaining hangars, and the dog slid her Intruder through the engagement like it was on rails — like it was nothing but a very powerful roller coaster. Six thousand kilograms lighter than the last time, her movements were easier and more fluid; even still, the loss of three more rockets gave a nice kick.

“Five's off."

“This is Four, in from the west."

“Four, cleared hot."

Kalija had enough altitude on this pass to catch the impact of the bomblets. Hundreds of flashbulbs, popping in angry bursts over the expanse of Mose Chivers Spaceport — and, a fraction of a second later, secondary explosions as their targets reacted. The planes out in the open, already tossed by the shockwave of the heavy rockets, didn't have a chance — shredded by shards of white-hot metal, they cracked like eggs.

The power generator failed, and suddenly there was nothing but pitch blackness around the fountaining sparks that sprayed and danced like they were staring into a furnace, or a volcano; like the very earth itself had opened up. The fires of Orc danced and whirled over cracking tarmac, and when Kalija looked off to her other side the stark emptiness seemed almost more terrifying still.

“How's the diff?" the mutt asked; though she'd looked away the canopy glass still reflected the slowly dying maelstrom. Impossible to avoid.

“If I was an honest man, I'd say a hundred percent. But if they got a hankerin' not to pay out a bonus..."

“Tracker Lead, this is Black Rook. Ninety-nine percent effect on target. Mission complete. Egress east and take position in the ascent marshall."

“Tracker Lead. Roger that, Black Rook."

“Good work, guys."

“Any time. Trackers, left turn for the outbound lane. Reference three-zero-zero, and call your turn when you intercept the lane."

Kalija switched her navigation computer to track the next waypoint; the “outbound lane" was a pathway, the Prebriefed Transit Corridor, along which their fighter escorts would destroy any aircraft without a CODA IFF signature and below which the Kestrels had theoretically removed all SAM batteries. 

Theoretically.

Between what was left of the spaceport and the corridor, they encountered nothing; they were a good five minutes outbound, and the rest of the squadron had finished their own mission, when a radio call summoned her attention.

“Spyglass. Pop-up group. Bullseye, zero-one-five for two hundred. Low."

“Oh, shit."

Kalija looked over at her bombardier. “Talk to me, Alamo." 'Pop-up' meant the reconnaissance aircraft had just detected them — which meant that they were highly unlikely to be friendly. Greeting the news with 'oh, shit' was even more worrisome.

“Spyglass picked it up as a mixed-EM contact. Still fuzzy. I'm trying to disambiguate it from the surrounding clutter..."

“Tracker Lead. Stay on course until we hear something different, guys."

The dog's nerves manifested as a tightened grip of the Intruder's flight controls, and growing eyestrain while she peered into the computer. Officially Spyglass had defined them as 'bogeys' — unknown aircraft — but the dog harbored no illusions about what that meant. “Austin Lead, this is Black Rook. Retask and shadow inbound bogeys vector three-two-zero."

“I don't like this," Kalija said. “I don't like this at all. Where's Austin?"

“Twenty klicks west of bulls."

The holographic display still hadn't decided how many of them there even were. The contacts presented themselves as a blurry cloud, moving south and barely a hundred and fifty kilometers away. “I really don't like this," the dog repeated. “Be nice to lighten up, too. We've still got three tons of missile onboard..."

“Maybe it's a civilian liner."

“Yeah, right."

“Austin'll pick 'em up before us." Stop being so calm, she wanted to tell him.

“Austin Lead. Tally, twelve-plus fast-movers. Black Rook, please advise."

“Black Rook. Austin, cleared to engage."

“Wilco, Black Rook."

She didn't have the chance to follow the engagement; a few seconds later Alamo spoke up, right along with her threat receiver. “Mud. Right one. Think they're starting to wake up."

A completely quiet mission was too good to have been true, anyway. “What is it?"

“IRON DRUM, I think. Type 30s."

Kalija swore. Her mic was muted, and in any case the words were in Nakath — her native language for profanity — and she won a second to catch herself. “You have the emitter? Where is it?"

“Two. Tagged 'em." 

The radars were not directly in the Intruder's flight path, but the flight was definitely going to be coming close enough that the Guard might get off an opportune shot. Pinball saw it too: “Tracker Lead. Picking up search radars. Flight, adjust course, left, reference six-zero."

Which put them closer to the developing aerial battle off to their north. With every second that passed, Kalija seemed to feel her senses shrouding ever-closer, narrowing in on the dials and maps that painted her picture of the outside world. The world was not a friendly one: thirty seconds later and two of the other Intruders were reporting radars, too.

Town guards, most of them; they were over loyalist territory, and most of the little hamlets and outposts had at least a few vehicles that could throw a missile at any wandering attack aircraft. Pinball ordered another course change, to skirt the worst of it — in an Intruder still carrying three tons of payload Kalija felt ever so slightly like she was balanced on a tightrope over a minefield. Except that the tightrope kept moving, and she was wearing snowshoes. And —

“Spyglass. Pop-up group. Bullseye, seven-zero for two hundred."

What? That was right in front of them. “Alamo, what's —"

“Contact, left eleven. That's an air-search radar, Elvis. Sixty kilometers."

“Tracker Four, spike, left eleven, low."

“Tracker Lead, this is Black Rook. Your contacts are presumed hostile. Turn left, heading due north. I'm vectoring the CAP to intercept you."

Kalija banked the Intruder — a little harder than necessary; even as she made the turn she recalled Zippo's chiding. An alarm flashed in her helmet. “Five, spike, right three. Jamming," she added on the intercom.

“I know." Barton was ahead of her. “Not much good. We're fat and pretty hot, Elvis. They'll see us."

“Austin?"

An angry snort. “Don't count on it. Austin's merged with the other package. Radio's a fucking mess. Pretty much snowblind."

“Missile launch! Tracker Two, notching, eleven."

According to her sensors, there were at least four enemy aircraft in play. From thirty kilometers out, the odds that the missile would hit successfully were low — but it did its job, forcing Woody to turn from his escape course in a sharp evasive maneuver. “It's lost track. Don't worry." Alamo's ever-cool voice kept her informed. “Spike, right three. Hold on — missile launch."

“Burn it," she ordered. “Five, missile launch." The dog dropped their right wing over and kicked the rudder as hard as she could, feeling the ACS jets kick in at the Intruder's fat stern. The missile-lock warning quieted — was replaced momentarily by an airframe stress alarm — and then nothing.

“Trashed," Alamo said. But that had cost them five hundred meters of altitude and a hundred knots in airspeed — and the other fighter's search radar still had them locked. “Tagged the shooter." 

It appeared as an ugly, flashing red icon. Twenty kilometers away and two above them, closing fast. Trying to line up for another shot — she jinked the big attack bird again to throw off their targeting sensors. “Five's defensive." She could no longer guarantee Pinball anything but an attempt to keep from being shot down.

“Four. I'm also defensive." “Four, this is Six. Tally two, your right two, high." “Four. No joy!"

Another warning glared in her peripheral vision — this time a quick turn failed to quiet it. She looked for the source of the signal: the flashing track of an incoming missile with her Intruder in its sights. Ten kilometers, high above her and burning at terrifying speed straight down. It was at a very bad angle for Alamo's active jamming.

Kalija pushed against the resistance of the joystick, and the rising pit in her stomach when gravity dropped out and they plunged into a steep dive. The Intruder tumbled between the arrow-straight streak of the rocket and the unforgiving ground that lurked in featureless black below them. She waited as long as she dared before pulling the stick back, to a creaking groan of protest from the airframe and a grunt from her bombardier... and a momentary burst of light from the missile's impact in the rocks below.

She couldn't consciously pay attention to the radio any longer, although the most important snippets filtered into her subconscious. Six friendly fighters were supposed to be on their way to help. Austin was still tangling with the other Guard aircraft, in what had devolved from a straightforward engagement into what they were calling a 'furball' — a frenetic turning engagement.

And now the other Intruders, under Bucky Fuller's command, were under attack by a handful of enemy fighters that had managed to break away. All of the information came in one ear, glanced around hastily, and just as quickly fled: it was all she could do to keep their own orientation straight. The ground was below her — to her right side — behind her, as she twisted the Intruder to give Alamo a better angle on their missiles.

In training or in peaceful operations, dogfighting had been stressful but somewhat fun. Now though — now every new warning drove a spike of what should've been panic into her thoughts. But it was more clinical than panic: that one missed by under a kilometer. The last one missed by nearly three. We need —

“Elvis — check your six."

A Guard Saker, half the size of her plane and three times as maneuverable, was going in for the kill. Trading missiles for its quicker, deadlier railguns, she presumed. The J-254C, her threat card had said, is armed with a single-barrel linear cannon firing a 200-gram tungsten round at four kilometers per second. The Type 482-mod-4 cannon is mounted in a stabilizer giving it 3.4 degrees of freedom in azimuth and elevation to either side.

The targeting computer requires an average of 1.5 seconds to compute a firing solution.

CEP for a stabilized, targeted round is .5 meters at 5 kilometers.

Full paragraphs of trivia — everything she'd learned — distilled themselves into a crystalline, razor-sharp thought, which was that she could not permit her Intruder to drift into that seven degree deadly arc before the Saker's nose. Her threat receiver flashed. “Alamo, can you jam their radar?"

“No."

She growled, and pushed the left pedal in as far as it would go. The Intruder slewed and tumbled, briefly out of control, but the maneuver was enough to tug them free for a moment. “Can you blind it?"

“No."

The threat receiver went active again. “Tracker Five." Her muzzle was clenched tightly, lip raised in a muted snarl. “Defensive. Hobo, some help here would be really nice."

“I have your contact, I just don't have anything to fucking shoot with." It sounded like his teeth were gritted, too.

She jerked the Intruder into a second roll just as one of the rounds crossed where her path had been. Every word that came to mind was profane. Then: no. They're not the good guys here. They don't get to win. So what was there to do? “Alamo, what's under us?"

“Rocks. There's fuck-all here, Elvis."

“Lead, this is Five. I need to jettison my payload. Zeus times three." They were too heavy to maneuver — and with two on her left wing, and one on her right, the Intruder was dangerously unbalanced, too. Sacrificing the extremely expensive missiles was unfortunate — she knew enough of the budget to imagine how many people would be called onto the carpet for an explanation.

“Do it," Pinball said immediately. “They can bill me."

Kalija tried to think carefully — tried to be a few steps ahead of the fighter behind them. The other pilot would know that the Intruder was slower, and heavier, and less maneuverable. He'd be expecting her to... what? Slow down? Try to force an overshoot? That would be logical. Turning would not be logical. Climbing would not be logical. Diving would not be logical. 

But maybe...

Maybe, if it's that obvious...

“Hobo, I'm gonna break hard left in a moment." 

“Copy..."

“How hard are we talking?" Alamo asked on the intercom.

“Pretty damn — oh, will you fucking fuck off?" The threat receiver had warbled a new burst of agitation, and this time the dog gave voice to the snarl she'd been holding back. “Pretty damn hard." She pushed both throttles forward, dragging a burst of acceleration from the attack plane and, she knew, a bright flare from her engines. As they started to gain distance from the pursuing fighter, they were coming closer to dead center in his sights. She flipped and held a switch on her joystick until the ominous 'AUTHORIZATION OVERRIDE' warning appeared in her sights, and then held down the trigger. “Five. Rifle, rifle, rifle."

As soon as the missiles had fired she cut the throttle, twisted the Intruder into a ninety degree bank, and pulled the joystick as hard as she possibly could. Lightened, it leapt excitedly at the possibility — too excitedly, for the inertial compensation shrieked in protest and Kalija felt as though she was being ground down into her seat. She couldn't breath — could scarcely move — just a second longer... hold it just a second more...

At once the enemy fighter had been confronted with two targets: the cluster of three missiles burning at full intensity, and the dark shape of the Intruder. It was just enough of a distraction that by the time he realized his mistake he had already carried on past her. Very nearly, indeed, carried on into the shockwave of the exploding Zeus missiles... though Kalija's luck was not quite that good.

She let off the stick to hear Alamo panting; coughing heavily. “Jesus, Elvis."

“We're alive, aren't we?"

“He's turning. Come right and —" He was interrupted by a chirp from their threat receiver. “What? Hold on, hold on. That's friendly."

“Tracker Five, buddy spike — bulls, zero-two-five, angels ten" the dog said it quickly, in the hopes that whoever had locked their Intruder wouldn't take any rash next steps.

“Tracker Five, this Buick Two. Copy that. Tally one bandit, your four o'clock, high. Hook left and I'll engage."

About damn time. “Tracker Five, turning left, two-zero-zero." Her master-warning panel was still complaining that the airframe was overstressed from the last maneuver, so she took the next turn slightly easier. Just like your checkride. Nice and smooth...

“Buick Two. Fox three." The J-254 didn't even have a chance to maneuver before the missile burst, shredding the whole of its left wing. It came apart completely a second later, enveloped in a startling orange fireball. “Splash one."

They made it look easy. Kalija shoved the Intruder into a rough evasive turn, just in case, glancing around wildly to see what her helmet picked up. But... “Alamo, are we clear?" Nothing unfriendly was showing up on her sensors. Either the computer had failed, or —

“I don't see anything either." He sounded just as surprised. In ten seconds it was all over. She was reminded of the hailstorms that hit the Oasis, sometimes — the moreau colony was too poor for a weather control unit. In two minutes the sky would empty on them, in a thunderous din... and then silence. And, a few minutes later, blue skies. Just-like-that.

All the adrenaline and terror and quick, reflexive, panicked maneuvering had amounted to... what? To their survival. “Yassuja."

“Buick Lead, this is Black Rook. Grand slam. Good work. Spyglass says we're clear of hostiles. Buick, Tracker, proceed on route at maximum speed. East is green through the PTC. Cleared to homeplate; recovery signal yankee, three-zero minutes to your initial burn."

Kalija blinked. Every twitch, every movement of her fingers still seemed to be in slow motion. “Really?"

“Nothing on my scope," Alamo confirmed.

“And we..." It was very hard to believe that, as suddenly as it had begun, the action had ended. “I..." 

“We're okay. Everything's okay."

“The flight?"

Barton stayed a little too quiet for her liking.

“Alamo?"

“Lost Sooner Three and Six." He said it quietly; his voice was still calm. “Noodle and Micro and, uh, Diva and Runner."

“They get out?"

“No. Possible signal from Six that they'll track, but according to what I heard Three didn't even get off a mayday. Was over in a second. Probably took a missile from one of the interceptors; got lucky and touched off one of their rockets." Or hit one of the batteries. Or took out the inertial compensators in the middle of a maneuver, so that the airframe immediately disintegrated. Or punched a hole in the engine, filling the whole airframe with ten-thousand degree plasma. 

There were a lot of ways to die fast, in an Intruder. “Well, fuck."

The news put a damper on the rest of the flight, and of course with so many planes recovering Kalija had plenty of time to wait — idling in the marshall stack, waiting to be given permission to land. She recalled Noodle's voice, teasing her in the ready room or over the squadron radio.

Two weeks earlier they'd been studying for a test together, on combat maneuvering in a mixed-threat environment. He'd drawn a few diagrams to explain his own experience. “Let's say this is me, and this contact here is a Type 105 you've picked up by the X-band radiation." Then he'd discarded them. “Nah, wait," he'd said. “Let's say this is you, and this contact here is a squirrel."

“I don't chase squirrels."

“Something you really want to roll in, then." He spoke in that high, reedy voice of his — but he'd done such a good job of walking through what he meant; taking the attack run step by step. Plotting areas where signal fading would cause problems for her bombardier, and where her attack profile would make it harder to get a lock with one of the Kraits.

After the test, when he'd wound up with a higher score — two points out of four hundred — he'd scoffed: 

“Got distracted thinking about the squirrels, didn't you?"

And now he was dead. A few milliseconds — the propagation speed of the blast-wave — and they were gone, before their brains even had a chance to register it. A few milliseconds and the two were just a line in a debrief, and a letter to their families, and what would be referred to as “personal effects."

She didn't mind the thought of dying so much as she minded the random immediacy of it. It seemed so bizarre that someone could be removed from existence so quickly. At first, like most of the pilots, she was not given to considering her own complicity. When, at the debrief, Commander Fuller reviewed the battle damage assessments, she listened dispassionately.

They'd certainly more than done their job. 

But over the following days, and after another sortie, she found herself questioning that. The attack pilots were lucky enough to be able to put distance both physical and mental from the results of their handiwork. Sometimes, though, when Kalija closed her eyes the dog found it hard to ignore the image of the burning spaceports.

And it was still difficult to come to terms with the burden of responsibility. She was more mature than her age suggested, of course, but all the same Kalija knew that she was very young, and the sense that her comrades and the other CODA soldiers depended on her was troubling.

But despite that burden, and despite her doubts over what she was doing every time she pulled the trigger, it was also impossible to deny the sense of exhilaration she still felt, every time she stepped into the cockpit. 

Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, it was still thrilling — every cat shot, every time she dropped the Intruder onto an attack run. The incongruity troubled her, and it stayed on her mind when the squadron was called back to full assembly two days after the mission to destroy the Guard's air force.

“General updates. Memorial services for Lieutenants Moore, Gomez, Costa and Dahl will be held the day after tomorrow at 1100 on hangar deck six. We're still waiting for the official reports, but it looks like both of those were due to hostile aircraft. We've now solved that problem, as you can tell. And good riddance. In related news, Captain Kerr has asked that I convey his appreciation for our performance over the last few sorties."

“Which counts for something," Polo added. “Marbles got his start on puffins."

“So he knows it isn't easy. The marines know that, too. Our hop yesterday won us some fans; apparently, they said in the debrief that our close air support was 'invaluable to mission success.' We don't get paid, but we do get a gold star. And Red, Captain Burr wants to know if you have a sister."

“How much is he offering?"

“A gold star," somebody called from the back, and a few of the others laughed.

“I'll think about it."

“You do that," Grace Putnam said. “Basically, Captain Kerr says we should keep up the good work. For the most part." She glanced at her wrist, as though checking her time on the communicator there. “Which is my cue to hand over to our bad cop."

Bucky rubbed his hands together and took the podium. “Hello, my lovelies." Mumbled answers from the squadron; he repeated himself, with emphasis. “Hello, my lovelies." 

“Hello, Bad Cop," they grumbled. In unison — also for the most part.

“I'll keep this short, for your attention spans. Chief Vartan would like me to remind you that he does not like having to replace damaged MVAS assemblies. That means safe them before you pickle. Do you know why? Of course you do, it's in your goddamned NATOPS material. Ask someone to read it out loud for you."

Despite having been designed for combat operations, the sensors were fidgety and sensitive. The stress and intense light of a missile launch tended to misalign them, which was why they were supposed to be turned off immediately beforehand — but that meant a delay in turning them back on, and no bombardier was enthusiastic about being blind even for a second.

“Zippo," Commander Fuller continued. He reached into the podium and held up a tablet. “Do you know what this is?"

“No, Bad Cop."

“Come up and take a look." She did, joining him and examining the device but saying nothing. “Guess."

Finally, Lieutenant Commander Jovanovic turned up her hands. “A computer?"

“So you do know. Squadron individual computers are now two patch cycles behind, apparently. Some of them are three. I learned this in a staff meeting with Wing Ops, and they are not happy. Which means I'm not happy. What happens if our computers get hacked? That wasn't a rhetorical question."

“Data is exposed, possibly compromising operational readiness," Zippo said dutifully.

“That's right. Explain for the class."

Zippo rolled her eyes. She was three meters of feistiness squished down into a package half that size; the eyes were deadly. “Somebody reads our mission cards and learns we're on Pike. Next, they learn that water is wet. Then, where the Ark of the Covenant is."

Fuller shook his head sharply. “Example. Somebody gets into Woody's computer. They steal the highly classified information he's hidden in the folder 'Backup/Personal Documents/Tax Forms/Unfinished'."

“Hey!" Lieutenant Price straightened in his chair. “Those aren't classified..."

“They delete it," Bucky went on. “Now he can't get off and there's an op coming up! He tells himself he's okay to launch, but he's not. Gets distracted by his blue balls and buys the damn farm. Operational readiness, Zippo," the XO said, punctuating the words 'operational readiness' by rapping the podium with the tablet.

“Fine," she sighed.

“Goes for all of you. I know you don't like the paperwork, guys. But this is an essential part of our job. Wing Ops is riding my ass to make sure we get our expenditure sheets filled, too. And four of you still owe me evals. It doesn't win medals, but I want them done."

More grumbling, although nobody really argued. Grace Putnam took the podium again. “You have two days to finish those. We're putting in to port for a few —" Pinball stopped to let the shouts of excitement die down. “Days. Unplanned, but we need to rearm and to do some maintenance on the main reactor, apparently."

“Fix the ALCS on deck three, too?" 

Their commander shrugged. “We can always hope, Driver. It's Havana, this time — now, that's also a civilian station, not just the CODA drydock. So you'll be on your best behavior, I'm sure. Bad Cop certainly doesn't want a repeat of what happened at Bartok." 

Bucky put on his best stony-faced glare.

“Good. Final remarks from the Fleet Board. They'd like us to know that Zippo has been approved for a commendation on account of her article in last quarter's Journal of Modern Military Science, that Blackout is now full-Lieutenant Kozlowski, and that Elvis and Hobo, you've received special thanks for your help with the Firo mess awhile back." 

“'Special thanks' meaning?" Barton asked.

“It says you're a 'credit to the Fleet Air Arm,' and Elvis is 'such a good dog; wait, no, the best dog, yes she is, yes she is.'" 

The mutt feigned disappointment. “I want that in writing." 

“I'll see what I can do. Polo, Red, Gnarly — we're up in five orbits; should be simple, but I'll give you more details when I have them from tactical. Probably hitting a marshaling point in advance of a marine op. Elvis, you'll take Five-One-One's place as a standby bird."

All business again. Kalija nodded, and made a quick note on her computer; Alamo was doing the same. “Yes, ma'am."

The arrival at drydock, two days full of giddy apprehension later, had the whole fleet carrier chattering. Everyone was talking about it, though the dog caught only snippets here and there. Much of it concerned what happened last time and you've gotta see and did you hear there's a place where you can. None of the activities mentioned were particularly wholesome.

Havana Station had been created from what was left of an asteroid mining operation, hauled into orbit around Adamantia on the outskirts of the Confederacy's territories. Now it was both a major drydock for the Colonial Defense Authority and a transit point for anyone headed to the outer colonies or the unaffiliated sectors — abuzz with activity, and with plenty of opportunities to get in trouble.

“Trouble?" Kalija asked, when Barton mentioned it.

He grinned. “Didn't read the threat card?"

“There was a threat card?"

The crown of the station was turned inward, to face the planet's surface. That was where the terminals were, and most of the shops, and the gateway that separated Fleet Drydock Havana from the civilian spaces. On the lower decks, closer to space, were first the warehouses, and then the machinery spaces and reactors, and then the population who had come to Havana but could not — or did not want to — leave.

“Slums?"

“All a matter of opinion," her bombardier snickered. In the more well-regulated sectors, somebody might notice if an officer happened to frequent a speakeasy, or a casino, or a brothel. Down below, nobody cared. CODA turned a blind eye because it was an easy way for the sailors to blow off steam, and the Havana government tacitly encouraged it because the money that they brought was enough to sustain the rabble and keep them from rising up.

Thus the Havana Amusement Park, a terrifying and rickety repurposing of the old minecart rails that the pilots swore was the best thing for their adrenaline since a SAM launch. An adjunct, near the edge of the station, supposedly allowed anyone willing to pay the money a chance to fire off heavy weaponry at Havana's outer walls. Thus the Bazaar, which sold virtually nothing that was 'legal' in a traditional sense of the word. Thus a dozen bars, with progressively more lecherous themes and progressively fewer clothes on the servers.

The dog's first thought was one of massive culture shock. Supposedly the asteroid contained nearly two million people at any given point in time, and it seemed as though half of them were out and about when they disembarked. At the center of the crown was a ring, six hundred meters across, that surrounded a borehole piercing the rock's heart; looking over the edge, she could see down at least twenty levels. Every level was teeming with people.

She tried to venture out and immediately felt overwhelmed. It was radically different than the solitude of a cockpit, and the bustling energy was too random and frenetic. Alamo didn't seem to mind; then again, he'd lived in a proper city, on Earth, and was used to that kind of thing.

For her, it was too much. While Barton went to find some sort of souvenir, the dog settled herself down in one of the café-bars at the heart of the transit terminal. At least everyone there seemed to have a sense of purpose. Two floors below, crowds of people threaded chaotic, almost indiscernible paths through each other — heading for the surface or trying to make a transfer connection to the next leg of some journey. Vacation. Business travel. Parts unknown.

Almost all of them were human; she saw a pair of feline moreaus slumped tiredly in the back of a sled packed with other luggage, but that was all. Even they were probably merely part of a corporate transfer: the moreaus wore plain vests, and nobody accompanied them save for the baggage handler. In her uniform, Kalija felt both insulated and conspicuous — the café owner served her willingly enough, but she found that her table had been given a wide berth.

They have no idea. The thought came back to her again and again. None of them had any idea what the Alliance had been doing — what she had been doing, only two days before. She'd ordered an iced coffee, and as her fingers brushed the mug's handle she thought of the feeling of cold metal — the way the Intruder's throttle felt, when she first stepped into the cockpit. The paint, long since worn away, and the smooth grey beneath it slowly warning to her touch. They had no idea about that, either.

She was getting better about things. If she closed her eyes, sometimes she saw only blackness instead of fire. Sometimes she didn't suddenly feel as though she was falling; as though strange forces pulled at her from every direction. Sometimes the white noise of the crowd around her was just that: white noise.

“Soldier?"

Kalija's eyes flew back open, and she jerked her head around to the source of the question. To her great surprise it was another uniformed moreau. A dog of sorts — perhaps — with a long muzzle and keen eyes. The uniform placed her in CODA's ground-mobile branch, and an officer at that: Kalija immediately straightened and moved to stand up.

“No, no. As you were," the other moreau assured her. “I'm as startled as you are. Fuzzies aren't rare; diggers neither, but odd's the day you see them at the same time..."

“There's not many, no. A few other dogs..."

“I'm not a dog," the strange-looking creature corrected. “Thylacine. We're extinct, don't worry. I was a one-off, from back on Earth — a science project."

The dog had heard of such projects before, although they were fairly rare. Still, it explained her bizarre appearance, and what happened to be stripes on her heavy tail. “Oh."

“And what about you? 'Kalija,' hm?" The thylacine read it from her nametag.

“Yes, ma'am," she said with a nod. “Lieutenant Kalija. Kharåk Kalija Shada — or, uh. 'Elvis.'" 

“Elvis?" The moreau grinned, then — putting on display many very, very sharp teeth. “You're a pilot, then, mate?"

“Yes, ma'am. Naval aviator. I fly Intruders. With VA-226, on the Bellau Wood."

“Great bloody fleet carrier they got blockin' the transit lanes, eh?"

“Ah. Yes, ma'am."

The newcomer turned her muzzle towards the empty seat that faced Kalija, and when the dog nodded she lowered herself easily into it. “Right. Well, I don't mind. Spend a lot of time looking up to you, we do. Ground-mobile, see? 43rd Armored, in the 6th Heavy Division. I'm Major Benjamin."

The dog could only blink, for a few seconds, as bits of information connected themselves in her mind. “Corinna Benjamin?"

“Yes?"

“My father served with you — on Jericho. And at Varna, I believe. I remember hearing your name when I was young."

Major Benjamin searched her face, as though answers might be found there. “Your father..."

“Miller. He has a Nakath-rukhat name, too, but only my mother calls him that. He's never really told me what he did on Jericho, except that it was in radios." And her mother, who knew, did not wish to encourage her daughter and had remained silent. “So perhaps you didn't know him, but..."

Corinna laughed. “My God — of course I did. At least, I did afterwards. He worked with the doc. Ah — sorry, mate, that's Professor Tindall. Before he moved to Cambridge, he was our captain. Led us at Jericho, and then through Varna and the Briar Campaign. Miller went to... he wasn't at the last reunion. Didn't he go to Dawa?"

“Yes — the Commonwealth moved to Dawa. I was born there. There aren't all that many of the First Ones, though." There had been two groups of moreaus on Jericho, when the fighting happened: the civilian Commonwealth made of corporate dogs like Mayor Iskich, and the First Ones granted citizenship for their service in the Colonial Defense Authority. For reasons Kalija did not completely understand, many of the First Ones had not settled at the Oasis — though they were always welcome, and had permanent honorary right to live there.

“No," the major agreed. “We're more scattered. My husband lives in Hana Lanja. That's another free colony."

“I've heard of it. They say it's nice..." It was a fishing community; most of the moreaus had gone on to be fishers or farmers. The dog had never wanted that for herself; had never worshipped agriculture and nature and the environment in the way so many of her comrades had done.

Corinna chuckled. From the creature's knowing smile, Kalija guessed she'd picked up that something had been held back. “It's no Terra, but what is?"

“I've only been to Hawaii. And just for training."

“You don't miss it? I'm from the Geodesic, but I haven't been back in decades. I tell myself there are too many memories, but the truth is if I had an excuse to go back... well, I would in a heartbeat. Anyway. How does the service treat you, lieutenant?"

Kalija was quiet. It took a few moments before she realized it was because she truly had no answer. “I'm not certain. I am having second thoughts about it. My commission's unrestricted; I could... try to buy out, when this tour's up. I mean, I probably won't, but it's kind of an option..."

“After all the work you've put into it?"

“Yeah."

“Hm." The other moreau didn't seem particularly surprised. A fair number of the First Ones had stayed with CODA; most, over the years, had left themselves. “Wasn't what you were expecting?"

Again, answering took the dog too much time and too much thought. “I don't know what I was expecting," she finally decided. “Only what I got."

“Intruders, you said? Strike missions, I reckon. Air support — help us poor blokes on the ground out of a jam now and then? I know how it is." She had rather alien eyes, and they were very piercing, but the wink she gave looked more than genuine enough. “Up there like angels, watching over us. Figure it looks different from up high."

“It's not... it's not exactly like that. Not... easy."

“Never said it was. Just different." Her tone quieted; softened. “Started out drivin' Tarvies. Then I was a 55i section leader. Then mechanized infantry. Back to Jackals now. It's never been easy, mate. Tell you, though, I owe so many good men to the Fleet Air Arm I couldn't buy you enough rounds with every brewery on Oranienburg."

“That isn't easy, either." She felt guilty, almost, having to admit that. “I mean — I like it, ma'am. The flying. Space. My machine... oh, there's nothing like the A-17. I don't think there ever has been; never, not anywhere. But at the same time, it's strange having people count on me — humans, in particular. Like it's not my place."

“What do you mean?"

“I mean, like... that maybe it would've been easier to take up lighters. Orbital tugs, something like that. Do you speak rukhat, ma'am? You said your husband..."

Corinna snickered. “I just know the curse words, mate. My husband's not a good dog to learn from."

“Oh. Well. There's a rukhat saying. It translates to... 'the pack is the pack, always.' But the word for 'pack' in ruhkat is complicated. It also means 'family,' or 'hierarchy,' or 'order.' For example, in rukhat the word for 'physics' means 'the order of movement' — or 'the pack of movement,' if you will."

“In other words, know your place."

“Yes. 'The long claw is easily torn,' that's another proverb." As they began to form communities of their own, the nakath had also become more clannish — more dedicated to the pack. Kalija had heard that it hadn't always been that way. At the same time, she understood why they did so: humans were fickle, and they lacked an understanding of her culture's idiosyncrasies. “My enlistment wasn't exactly a popular decision."

“You think that maybe you shouldn't be stickin' your neck out for the dezzies, huh? Ah — humans, sorry. Wouldn't be the first to think that."

“You don't, ma'am?" 

“Been doing this for more'n twenty years, mate; awful late to decide otherwise now. Your dezzies, the ones you fly with — they know they can count on you?" 

“Maybe. I think so."

“They will. They'll come to think you can do anything. Solve any problem. They'll see some situation on the ground and think: Kalija can do this. And you know why that is?"

Kalija fidgeted with her slowly warming cup. “No."

“Because they'll be right. You sure as hell didn't get those wings because they hand 'em out like milk bones to any morrie piker who begs hard enough. You probably don't even know what 'puppy dog eyes' look like," the moreau added, teasingly. “If they count on you, it's because you can do it. And you know that."

The dog opened her muzzle to answer, and then held back. She held back because the thought that came to her mind was not of Pike, or of fighting with her mother over the enlistment. Not of the tedious examinations. Not of the stoic way she'd borne the jeers of the other students; she'd been so proud of that, at the time, telling herself that it was simply the way of things. That the pack was the pack — always.

The thought that came to her mind was of her first solo flight, in a T-3B orbital trainer. A quirky, scuffed old thing: manual controls, manual programming on the flight computer. Twice as old as she was. Notoriously twitchy — the rumor was that CODA lost more naval aviators to the T-3s than they had to all their actual foes combined, between accidents and washouts.

On a hot, sticky Hawaiian afternoon she'd finished her walkaround preflight. She'd opened the canopy, and dropped into the seat and known in an instant that she was made to have been given wings. That if they weren't given, she would have to take them. The thought that came to her mind was the way the controls had felt in her paws. Her instructor, leaning over the edge of the cockpit, and catching her grin, and asking: you think you can handle this, do you?

She told Corinna, at last, the same thing she'd told him. “I know I can."

The older moreau didn't question the sincerity or decisiveness in the answer. “Thing is, though..."

“Thing is, ma'am?"

“Do you wonder... if you can, maybe you have to. You look like a shepherd, maybe? Well, doesn't somebody have to guard the flock?"

Kalija's ears twitched. “I have thought that. Yes."

“Then you will. Better than bloody anyone. Not 'cause you love the dezzies; hell, not 'cause you even forgive 'em. Not 'cause you owe them. Because they're counting on you, and it's the right thing to do."

“As a shepherd," Kalija said.

“As a shepherd. An' one day, mate? It's gonna be my arse on the ground, and a hundred bloody divisions around me on the attack. And they're gonna say, 'Major, we've got air support inbound hot.' And I'll look up, and see your squadron. An' I'll say: 'she'll be right.'"

The dog took a deep breath. “You can count on me, ma'am."

“I know." Corinna winked, and thumped the table. “Back at it, aye? Should go to meet my ship — 'nother lovely vacay at Carthago. Tell Miller I said 'hi,' won't you?"

“Of course, ma'am," she said, and stood when the major did. “Take care."

Buoyed, she considered searching for Barton, but Woody said that he was in the lower decks looking for “impolite hobbies." Mostly on a whim, she gave Taru Ikaja a call instead, and a half an hour later the Border collie skipped into view from the Bellau Wood's gangway.

Taru's ability to dress well continually impressed the mutt. Where Kalija looked uncomfortable in nearly anything but a flightsuit — and only because it was custom-designed — Taru managed to pull off a passable impression of human fashion. Her long, coral-pink dress was the same color as her tongue — which she made good use of, licking the other dog's face. “Hello, sister!" 

“Hello," Kalija returned, her heavy shepherd's tail wagging. “Have you been to Havana before?" 

“Just the terminal."

Between the two of them, that still made Taru the expert. Kalija followed the collie down and into the lower decks. The first day they occupied in the Havana Museum of Culture, a motley combination of local artistry and things that had been confiscated by customs.

Much of the art was mysterious to both of the dogs. The paintings were done in colors intended to appeal to a human eye; the sculptures were strange and abstract and puzzling. Taru knew a little more — at one point, turning a corner, Kalija saw the Border collie's ears perk up, and she skipped towards a feathery object shrouded behind thin glass.

“It's an original Cara Anastasova!" she gushed. “Look!" 

The object in question was a thin, fragile, spindly model of a dove in flight. On closer inspection, it was made up of fine, gossamer-thin crystal that shimmered and changed colors to reflect the light when they walked around. “'To take flight,' is that the name?" She read it from words formed in the bird's delicate shadow.

“Yes! It's one of her early pieces — in partnership with Lev Marshall!" Taru was licking her muzzle excitedly, her tail wagging as she danced back and forth to watch the opal-bright fire that glittered and glowed. “I'd heard they were trying to get one!"

Impenetrable as modern art was — Kalija, after all, knew all about what it meant to take flight — the other dog's excitement more than justified the visit to the museum. Newly animated, Taru chattered with all the knowledge she had of the artwork and kept them there all the way until closing.

Kalija didn't mind; it was impossible to mind, seeing the look of pure joy on her friend's fuzzy features. The lateness of the hour also made it easy to agree with Taru that the easiest thing to do was to find a hotel on the station rather than try to negotiate permission to reboard the Bellau Wood.

By morning, Kalija had largely banished all of the self-doubt she had been accumulating. They wound up in the arboretum — sprawling across the entirety of two decks and glowing with natural-colored light. The metal walkways were nothing like a true dirt path, but even so Taru lit up to see plants again.

“Do you miss your home, Shadla? Your pack?"

The mutt twitched her ears; it wasn't a question with a particularly straight answer. “I do sometimes. I miss some of my friends."

Taru slipped her fingers between Kalija's, folding her paw warmly close as they strolled. “You knew them from a young age, I guess?"

“I did."

“I don't think anyone is left from my group in the barracks." The collie said it simply, with only the faintest trace of sadness — a human would not have caught it; it was carried in the slight droop of her ears. “I wasn't able to find them."

“You were from... DEC?"

“DataSys," Taru corrected. “2C-428F-LEM. I was from the Loyola foundry." She'd found it easier to switch into English. “They shipped most of my batch to the DataSys consultancy unit very early."

Barracks-born moreaus were not raised by natural parents; often they did not have them. They were reared in litters, in something the American Genetics Marketing Corporation referred to as a 'parturition matrix.' The matrix was designed to teach the young dogs to be consummate analysts, living computers that could handle any concrete task with only the simplest of explanations.

'Parturition matrix,' like 'consultancy unit' and 'dog foundry,' did not have a Nakath-rukhat translation. Kalija's generation were some of the first to have been raised without them, and their parents took a special pride in denying in language the indignities of such an experience.

But because corporate moreaus were raised to be docile, Taru showed no strong sense of guilt or longing when she asked: “It wasn't like that for you, was it? You had real friends?"

“Yes. And a school, run by the Commonwealth. They pack a lot into those first few years..." Parturition matrix or not, moreaus reached 'maturity' early — the better to guarantee a nice, long service life that few of them ever actually survived to see out.

“I bet that was very different! I don't remember much of growing up. There was a big man who came to give us food — he was old. He smelled like trees. One day he took one of the others, another 428F, and they never came back. He was... 'retiring,'" she said, dragging the word from memory with difficulty. “He got to keep 428F-WIL as a going-away gift." 

“I..."

“It was probably better for both of them." Taru smiled and reached out with her other hand to brush the trunk of one of the old trees that provided some fraction of the station's oxygen and all of its scarce tranquility. “You were lucky in some ways. At DataSys, before I transferred to CODA, we were hired out to a movie studio. When the project got cut, they fired the handler on the spot. Nobody knew that she still had three other moreaus working for her. In a locked room. By the time they found them, all three had to be put down."

“Did you ever consider joining the Commonwealth? They'd take you."

Taru's stories didn't seem to have affected the collie's mood, for she simply shrugged. She seemed to be content with the trees, and with company. “Not really. I don't mind humans. They... they mostly mean well, you know, and when they make mistakes... we all make mistakes, don't we?"

Kalija's mother had never been so forgiving — the young mutt had heard tale after dark, cautionary tale. “Do you have human friends?"

“Sort of. Sometimes it's more that they want things from you, and those aren't always... well... they're not always polite, let's put it that way!" Taru laughed, and turned to give Kalija's muzzle an impulsive lick, reflexively defusing any implications. “I like some of the others. I like Dr. Müller. What about you?" 

The men and women of VA-226 were far different than anything her mother had warned her about. The mutt wasn't blind, nor stupid; she knew that humans were not universally kind to moreaus. She knew, even, what Taru had meant by 'polite' desires. But for the most part, they were not so terribly monstrous. “I like the people I serve with. I'm... okay with them." Hokeh, the Nakath-rukhat equivalent they had borrowed from English, gave a word to the defining characteristic of the race — contentment. Acceptance. Satisfaction.

“So you won't go back to Dawa?"

Kalija's ears flattened. “I guess not."

The Border collie stopped in mid-stride, turned, and gave her companion a warm hug. Slim arms encircled her firmly: “You know what, jankito. Let's not talk about this. Let's be happy, alright?"

That was an easy order to follow. Kalija nosed into the other dog's soft blue-grey cheek, returning the hug, and they walked the paths of the arboretum in quiet, content reflection.

It was, she concluded, good to have Taru around. The Border collie's easygoing optimism kept Kalija from becoming too cynical, and like Major Benjamin it helped to have reminders that it was possible to be happy living amongst humans.

And her fur was so soft — so pleasant to nuzzle at and groom. Kalija had certainly had opportunities to be close to humans before, but their bare skin was rather odd, to say the least. Taru, in contrast, reminded Kalija of her own instincts...

At night, in the hotel room, she watched Taru slip her dress off with less than detached interest. It was so easy for Kalija to be distracted by the other dog — so enticingly soothing. Let's be happy...

And why not? When she joined the collie in bed, she took advantage of the opportunity to slide her paw down through that thick pelt from the white blaze that collared her shoulder to the mottled slate of her hip.

Taru tilted her head and parted her muzzle in a canine grin. “Sudden interest?"

“Shh," Kalija murmured, and slid closer, pressing her fingers into heavy fur. To clarify things, she licked the other dog's open muzzle. “Kayyich... you don't suppose..."

“Suppose?" The dog felt Taru's paw first as a warmth on her own bare back, and then as a tugging pressure that pulled them together. “What would I suppose, jankito? Dhunkalija jin galek?"

Taru snickered, after the question, and Kalija pressed her nose the rest of the way against that inviting blue muzzle. She caught the soft, sweet velvet of the other dog's tongue, and when Taru's grip tightened on the mutt's supple side it was the answer to the only question left worth asking.

She awoke hours later, still snuggled in the collie's happy embrace. Consciousness did not come naturally: something was buzzing, from the side table near the bed.

She looked over and fetched her wrist communicator, which was flashing the yellow light that was supposed to mark a high-priority message. Briefing, auxiliary room 3. 30 mins. Kalija grumbled — though mostly because the bed was comfortable — and sat up.

Next to her, Taru stirred and opened a drowsy eye. “Shadla?"

“Work, apparently," she told the collie.

Taru nodded and closed her eyes again. “Important, then; it must be. I'll take care of anything with the hotel, jankito."

“Thank you." With a smile, Kalija leaned over, and gave the tired collie's muzzle a lick. It was good to have Kayyich's company — good to have someone to talk to who wasn't in the squadron. Taru Ikaja was a little soft, but in a way that Kalija herself found rather refreshing. Besides which, she smelled nice.

Kalija's uniform, on the other hand, smelled only of detergent. She pulled it on, and padded out into the hallway. Her wrist computer drew a route for her benefit, but the dog had already committed the relevant parts of the Havana's map to memory. It was, by now, an old habit.

“Lieutenant," Bucky Fuller nodded when she stepped into the room. 

“Sir," she acknowledged him. Only a few others had made it — Zippo and Roulez, Woody and Tophat; Red and Driver. Driver's hair was still wet from what looked to have been a hasty shower. Kalija found Alamo and took the seat next to him. “You know what's up?"

“Same as you, Elvis," he drawled. “Same as you." 

“I'll give it another minute," Bucky told the group. “But I don't expect many more." His bombardier, Christina Nolan, was the last to arrive; the attendance didn't surprise him. “So, thanks for coming on short notice. I know we were supposed to have another three days of shore leave."

'Supposed to' drew a few irate groans. “Canceled?" Roulez guessed.

“Perhaps. We've finished rearming early. Commander Putnam is onboarding five new aviators, which will bring us back to full nominal strength. So, upshot is: the Bellau Wood will depart tomorrow. The question is whether we're on it or not."

Quickly, Bucky explained that TFK-60 had been dissolved. All of its component units had been folded into a new fleet, with an expanded mission to support the Aurora movement on Pike. Two additional fleet carriers had joined, and another four cruisers, and enough landing ships to put two armored divisions on the ground in addition to the marines of the Rapid-Reaction Task Force.

“Captain Kerr understands that we're at half strength with the squadron ashore, so he's asking for volunteers. That means I'm asking for volunteers. Commander Putnam and I will return; we've also got about two-thirds of the hangar and deck crew, so we should be able to support flight ops. The rest of you can either come now, or you can join the Challenger when she departs in four days."

“What's in it for us? They paying us?"

“Standard compensation. And the mission bonuses."

Driver didn't seem all that persuaded by the offer. “Out of the goodness of our hearts, then?"

“Yes. To be honest, the situation on the ground looks to be coming apart pretty quickly. There's open fighting across two thousand kilometers of front. Our suppression of the Guard's air force has bought time, but it's also caused some unseemly folks to take an interest."

Kalija raised her paw. “The Kingdom?"

“We don't have enough ships to enforce a blockade, and, well, God knows we probably wouldn't anyway. We know they're arming up — their defense network is already being reinforced. Ground fighting is..." 

Bucky sighed, and turned to a map. Pike's Territorial Guard outnumbered and outclassed the separatists; according to the XO, the Guard had taken a thousand square kilometers of territory in only three days. The separatists were hitting back in the only way they knew how — sabotaging one of the rail bridges; a suicide bomb targeted at the port in New Sydney.

“Reprisals have been equally swift. Kingdom artillery was designed to oversaturate the APEC — sorry, the point-defense guns on our walkers. Turns out they do a real number on towns without any protection. Civilian casualties are expected to be high. They know the stakes. The rebellion needs to be crushed now, or it might start to draw wider support."

“That means we're on the ground, then." Driver looked very unhappy. Close air support missions lurked in their future.

“That's right. The Board has transferred the 4th and the 9th Heavy division off duty in the Rift for this, so I'd say the odds are good we're in it for the long run. They want the Bellau Wood back because they need the Wild Weasels. We're just the cherry. I'll give you some time to think about it, but... as I said, we leave tomorrow. I want your decision on my desk by 1800." 

Being a mercenary had some advantages, though they were few. CODA's officers, which included all of the flight crew, were supposed to be professionals — they could elect to decline a mission if they felt it was inappropriate. Almost nobody did; it reflected poorly on one's career prospects.

But Driver looked like she was considering it. So, for that matter, did Woody; since Noodle's death he had been rather withdrawn. Kalija found it hard to read Barton Glenn; after Bucky dismissed them she invited her bombardier over to the café for a drink and to talk it over.

“What are you thinking?" he asked.

“I don't know." It wasn't quite true; she'd already mostly made up her mind. Still, Alamo had more experience, and the mutt was open to being persuaded. “I was going to ask what you thought."

“I think it's not much pay for a lot of risk." 

“Squadron ATAQ will be low at half strength..."

He shrugged. “Might could be. Maybe not, though. Why would you go back?"

“Those civilians are... I mean, you saw the pictures. Guess you've read the news, too?" Light-years away as it was, they all tried to keep up at least a little with what was going on. “They said nearly eighty dead in Poor Man's Canyon alone, and they're still digging out the rubble..."

“You know 'em?"

“No."

Alamo stirred a perfunctory spoon through his black coffee. “Reckon it might not be our fight then, huh?"

“Because you think the separatists are just... corporate shills." 

He shook his head. “'Cause it ain't our fight. Either way."

“You really believe that?"

“What do you think, Elvis?"

Yes, he was very hard to read. Barton's face was still youthful, but when she met his eyes now the look in them was inscrutable. Dark. “I think you disagree. Like you disagreed when we didn't intervene that first time, and like you disagreed with bugging out in the Indigo Hills. I think you agree with me, that... that those people down there need our protection. And the soldiers — the walkers. They're not designed to fight on their own. They'd be counting on us." 

“Well..."

She shook her head curtly. “And some tactical planner will look at the threat coefficient and fiddle with the numbers a bit and send them down anyway, and then, you know what? That's on us, too. Just like the Indigo Hills."

“You think you owe them something?"

“No. It's not about owing or being owed. But..." Corinna's words stuck with her. “But if we can protect them, then we should."

“Guarding the flock, sheepdog?"

It was the first time he'd made mention of her species in some time. “If you like."

“How come they ain't ever called you anything like that? Why 'Elvis'?"

“Don't change the subject, Alamo. Maybe it's dangerous, sure. But those civilians down there, or the separatists fighting for their lives — they didn't ask how safe it was. If somebody's going to be on the line to keep them safe, it ought to be us. Even if it is risky."

“Then we should go..." he trailed off, prompting her.

Not because of money, or Fuller's expectations, or intergalactic politics. “We should volunteer to go back, because it's the right thing to do."

Barton finally smiled, and allowed himself a sip of the americano. “Took you long enough."

“What?"

“You talk too much."

Her ears splayed. “What?" she asked again.

“It's the right thing to do." Alamo's eyes came back to life. “You know it. I know it."

“Even though it's... dangerous."

“I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." Alamo winked. “Let's go tell Fuller before you think too much on that."