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nose cockpits making final checks. Though most Commonwealth wings had been withdrawn to make way for the offworlders, a flight of these Cyclones had been left on station to fly top-cover tours while the Imperials bedded in.
    “Coming, Marquall?” Jagdea asked. He turned and nodded.
    “Yes, commander.” Marquall was the youngest aviator in Umbra by four years, and the only one with no operational combat experience. Everyone else had seen at least some action during the Phantine liberation. Marquall had still been in the accelerated program at Hessenville when hostilities ended. He was eager and, Jagdea believed, reasonably gifted, but only time would really tell his worth. He had the classic saturnine good looks of a Phantine male, and a white, toothy grin that people either found winningly charming or unpleasantly cocky.
    Umbra Flight strode off across the apron towards the hangar, followed by another flight of aviators spilling down from a second transport. Jagdea took a glance back at their own ride. In the cab, the Munitorum driver nodded briefly to her. She could clearly see how one half of his face was lost in burn scarring, as if soft, pink rose petals had been plastered across his skin.
    They walked into the vast drome hangar. The air inside smelled cold and damp, with a tang of promethium. The interior space had been cleared, except for a lone Shrike under tarps in a corner, and a stage of flak-boards supported by empty munition crates had been raised along the west wall. A chart stand and a hololithic displayer had been set up on the staging.
    A group of more than twenty aviators was already waiting inside. They stood near the stage, their kit bags at their feet. Like the men who had come off the second truck, they were Navy pilots, wearing grey flight armour and black coats. Some of them sported augmetic eyes. They greeted their colleagues from the second truck, but both groups looked dubiously at the Phantine as they came in, and stayed apart from them in segregated groups. Jagdea regarded them casually as Umbra Flight dropped their bags and made a huddle. The Navy fliers kept glancing their way. Jagdea knew the Phantine Corps was unusual, and that set them apart from the regular Imperial aviators. It undoubtedly would mean rivalry and a pecking order, she accepted.
    They were tough-looking brutes, sturdy and thickset, with pale skins and cropped hair. Most of their flight-suits were reinforced with plating sections or coats of chainmail, and their heavy leather coats were often fur-trimmed. Many had ugly facial scars. Several displayed medal ribbons and other honour sashes.
    “Sixty-Third Imperial Fighter Wing,” Blansher whispered discreetly in her ear. “The Sundogs, as they like to be styled. I believe that one there, the big fellow with the flight commander pins, is Leksander Godel. Forty kills last count.”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” she answered lightly.
    “The other bunch are the 409 Raptors, I believe,” Blansher went on, “which would make that unassuming fellow there Wing Leader Ortho Blaguer.”
    “The same?”
    “The very same. One hundred and ten kills. See, he’s looking at us.”
    “Then let’s look somewhere else,” Jagdea said and turned away.
    “Orbis at your six!” Pilot Officer Zemmic suddenly cried out loudly, his voice echoing round the drome. Dismounting from another transport just now drawn up outside, a dozen more Phantine fliers were marching into the hangar. Jagdea felt instant relief at the sight of familiar faces. Orbis Flight, comrades and friends. At the head of them strolled their commander, Wilhem Hayyes.
    The two wings clustered together and greeted each other.
    “Nice of you to join us,” Jagdea grinned as she shook Hayyes by the hand.
    “Nice of you to wait for us,” Hayyes replied. “I trust there are still some bats flying for us to hunt.”
    A hush suddenly fell. A final group of aviators, all Navy men, had just entered the hangar, making a late