Warsong (Hunter-Killer #2)

Chapter 06 - Respect is Earned Both Ways

The pilots dispersed, still competing to dish out the best insults for their supposed allies. He hung back, a heavy sigh sinking into his body as he looked back at his Hunter-Killer. It had seen him through a lot of bad things in this world. Hopefully it could carry him through the next phase of the bloodshed too. All around him the hangar reverberated with the sounds of an army girding up for war, engines growling like caged beasts, welding torches snarling in work bays and the heavy thunder of Hunter-Killer steps echoing in the rafters.

His head hurt. His pilots weren't the only ones who needed some rest. Locking away his misgivings for another day, Ryke trudged his way from the hangar and out onto the Stamm Basin concourse. The twin suns were setting fast, leaving a lurid smear of orange and crimson across the horizon and bathing the city in a warm twilight. He felt a rare breeze struggling its way through the heat and exhaust fumes that formed a constant haze over the base. Feeble as it was, it still offered some welcome relief from the natural, blistering heat of the planet.

Ryke opened his face to the breeze, making his way across the concourse along the black painted route marked out, keeping any unwary wanderers from stumbling inadvertently into a combat exercise. The half-barrel of the barrack block squatted on the eastern edge of the complex nestled in the midst of a line of storage yards, military forges and billets.

Already he could see several of Brekka's resident Hunter-Killers lounging at trestle tables set up outside the building. Most of the northern contingent had been billeted in a different block a few hundred yards further down. At first they'd been placed because of a lack of space in the main Hunter-Killer block. Now they stayed there to keep the two groups from clashing in their off duty hours.

He walked through the garrulous pilots – most of whom were indulging in tumblers of home-grown shiner or the local, officially sanctioned scorch beer – trading insults and greetings in equal measure with pilots he knew, but he wanted to find a quieter corner, if at all possible. After collecting a beer for himself from one of the open coolers, Ryke wandered his way into the smaller collection of tables scattered down the right flank of the building, lying in its shadow and illuminated by pale floodlights.

"Vannigan, that you?" called a voice. He blinked; peered into the half-light. The speaker lounged at a table right at the end of the row, as far from noise and bustle of the front of the barracks as one could get.

He recognised her HK-Praxis' Sergeant Charpente, who's squad had been drilling as part of his unit for the better part of two weeks now. Off-duty, her frizz of red hair was no longer tied in a tight bun, instead hanging in a loose, wild halo around her face. She was maybe a year or two older than him, and her skin had retained a level of paleness in spite of Rychter's aggressive sunshine, She had her feet slung up on the table, a bottle hanging loosely between forefinger and thumb.

"Looking for a little quiet?" she asked, gesturing to her surroundings.

"Looks like you beat me to it."

Charpente smiled and nodded to the chair opposite her. "Pull up a pew, sergeant. I don't mind sharing."

"Thanks." He sank down into his seat, breath leaving his body in a rush of unwinding muscle. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his spine ease against the seat back.

"Long day, eh?"

"By the Everflowing, that's an understatement." Ryke opened his beer and took a gulp, letting the cool, crackling liquid burrow down his throat. "How long have we been at this, huh? How long is it going to take for Harcourt, Llewellyn and the rest of them to get the message?"

"What message, exactly?"

"That they don't know what they're doing!"

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Steady, Vannigan. They mean well."