{"sf1_id":1349889,"sf2_id":"RnopRVy1","title":"Silver Lining (Chapter 7)","author":"DecoFox","words":6002,"posted_at":"2018-07-10T01:25:00.000Z","tags":["Action","Adventure","Airplane","Art deco","Border Collie","Couple","Decopunk","F/M","Female","Flight","Flying","Interwar","Love","Military","Mystery","Novel","Retro future","Sci-Fi","Science Fiction","Sky","Steam Punk","Straight","Swing","Vintage","War","Western","Western Swing","airship","combat","dieselpunk","tomboy"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1349889-silver-lining-chapter-7","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/RnopRVy1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/52/5f/525fe252-5793-4d14-a662-b9b5160882b1","description":"#7 of Silver Lining\n\nGreentext\nSecond Person Present\nNovel-Length, by chapter.\nWIP\nYou, a newly minted combat pilot with all the associated buckle and swash, find yourself signed up to escort an airship carrying mysterious cargo to places unknown. It feels good to be the real deal finally, just like in the books and moving pictures, even if they did assign you a border collie for a partner. And besides, the two of you aren't in over your heads or anything, right?","content":"Chapter VII, Mountain Dew  \n  \n\\\u003e \"Uh, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eYou wake slowly, your mind's eye stumbling over the last few images of a pleasant dream.  \n\\\u003eWhere the fuck were you again?  \n\\\u003eIn bed, yeah, but something's different.  \n\\\u003eYour nose is stuffed. So goddamn stuffed that you're breathing through your mouth.  \n\\\u003eYou're looking at the wrong wall, too. The one with all the posters.  \n\\\u003eThat's supposed to be on the other side of the--  \n\\\u003e \"You okay there, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eOh, shit.  \n\\\u003eYou remember all at once.  \n\\\u003eShit. Shit. Shit. You'd fallen asleep, hadn't you? No wonder you were so fucking comfortable. What's happening? Is she pissed?  \n\\\u003e \"Look, Anon, this is real cute 'n all, but I need you to let go of me so I can go pre-flight.\"  \n\\\u003eShe shifts, and you notice you're embracing her rather tightly about the waist. Waves of panic and embarrassment break over you in series; fortunately she's looking the other way.  \n\\\u003e \"Aaaaanon....\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah. Uh, Sorry.\"  \n\\\u003eHastily you release your grip and tuck your arm beside you.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eWhitney yawns, flops onto her back, and then tosses the blanket away. A crisp, dry draft flows in and startles the last of the sleep from your head.  \n\\\u003e \"Mornin', by the way,\" she offers, smacking her lips a little as she buttons the oil-stained shirt and slips her sheepskin jacket over a shoulder.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou can't help groaning a little as she steps out of the light and the glare from the window finds its way directly into your eyes.  \n\\\u003e \"Mornin' Whitney.\"  \n\\\u003eShe flashes a smile as you sit up.  \n\\\u003e \"Take your time, Cap'n. I'll see you on the flightline.\"  \n\\\u003eBefore you can reply she mocks a salute and dodges through the door, tail whipping around the corner behind her like a kite's.  \n\\\u003eDamn, she seems chipper. You'd done a once-over for holes in the facade, but she actually seems genuine.  \n\\\u003eYou cast off the rest of the tacky quilt and ease onto your feet, stretching your back for all it's worth and clearing your nose a little.  \n\\\u003eThe air bites you a little less as you acclimate, and less again as you rub your eyes and pull your jeans on. Even the metal floor isn't terribly cold under foot.  \n\\\u003e...maybe today won't be so bad. You are underway now, and Whitney's spirits are rubbing off on you a little. You still don't know what the fuck's going on, but at least it's starting to seem like you're on the right side of it.  \n\\\u003eBesides, it was awful nice of her to get the airplane ready for you. There was nothing in the contract that said she had to do that. She was your partner, free and clear; you even made the same money. It did make you feel pretty captain-ey though, watching her scurry off like that. You can't help wondering if that was why she'd done it.  \n  \n\\\u003eThe sun shines brightly in the porthole, and from behind the glass a clear, blue sky beckons you eagerly. You can't help smiling a little to yourself as you lace your boots.  \n\\\u003eIt really could be a good day, couldn't it?  \n\\\u003eSurely they happened at least occasionally, and you reckoned you'd already earned one. Maybe you'd even get some answers.  \n\\\u003eYou shoulder your jacket and fish a few sticks of jerky from your bag, then stop a little short of leaving.  \n\\\u003eWhitney really didn't need to play servant to you. It'd felt pretty good, but you do feel a little guilty that you're the one taking it easy after how tough last night must've been on her. You really ought to return the favor.  \n\\\u003eYou've never been much of a cook, but you throw a few slices of some of the nicer lunchmeat you brought along from home between some stale-ish bread and call it a sandwich.  \n\\\u003eBetter than nothing. Besides, you've got another idea. An idea your aching ribs are quick to get behind.  \n\\\u003eYou jam a stick of jerky between your teeth like a cigar and strike out.  \n  \n\\\u003eHangar B is busier today. No fewer than four airplanes are staging, fuselages shimmering gaily in the shady mid-morning light that streams in through the rear hangar door. A stiff but fragrant breeze howls down the runway and stirs the peaty smells of appalachia in with the sweet and sour flavors of fuel and oil.  \n\\\u003eIt's a cold breeze, but a dry one, and it rolls harmlessly past your jacket without doing much more than stirring up the fleece.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eWhitney, who's leaning against your airplane and exchanging some sort of banter with Tucker \"Whirligig\" Riley, grins when she sees you.  \n\\\u003eIt might be confirmation bias, but you're pretty sure there's a little shimmy in her tail too.  \n\\\u003eShe shoves off of the fuselage and turns as you approach.  \n\\\u003e \"You're late,\" she mocks, \"Three minutes. Tsk tsk.\"  \n\\\u003eYou muster a chuckle and lean casually beside her, then glance over once you're pretty sure the other pilot's out of earshot. You pat her on the shoulder.  \n\\\u003e \"You, uh, you feelin' better, Kid?\"  \n\\\u003eHer smile flattens and one of her ears twitches a little, but she gives you a firm, shallow nod.  \n\\\u003e \"I'm okay; thanks for askin'. Don't really want to think about it right now, if'n 'ya don't mind.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Understood.\"  \n\\\u003eYou follow up the shoulder pat with another one and present her with the sandwich. Her grin snaps back.  \n\\\u003e \"For me? Aww, thanks!\"  \n\\\u003eShe doesn't waste any time wolfing it down. When she's finished, she pats the engine cowling with a paw.  \n\\\u003e \"We're lookin' ship-shape here. One of the cowl screws was loose and the windows needed a little cleanin', but I took care of that.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Ready to head out, then?\"  \n\\\u003eShe smirks sheepishly.  \n\\\u003e \"I could use a little help loading the Ma Deuce. Any luck and we won't need it, but it pays to be careful.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Thought you were a pro or something.\"  \n\\\u003eShe shrugs.  \n\\\u003e \"Ain't fired belt-fed. Sue me.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Then I'll show you before we start up. Anything else?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shakes her head.  \n\\\u003e \"I've got the right tie-down if you've got the left.\"  \n\\\u003eYou shoot her an encouraging look that she doesn't seem to know what to do with.  \n\\\u003e \"Know what? My fucking chest still hurts like a motherfucker. You take the left chain.\"  \n\\\u003eShe furrows her brow as she considers what you mean, then her face lights up, and a cheshire cat grin spreads down the length of her muzzle, teeth bearing generously.  \n\\\u003e \"I was hoping you'd say that; You won't be disappointed! I promise!\"  \n\\\u003e \"Reckon I won't be. She's your ship today; just let me know what you'd like from me, Captain Latham.\"  \n\\\u003eYou take care to put some extra emphasis on that last pair of words. Whitney beams wildly, and then in the second you look away to switch sides you find yourself seized in a short but firm embrace.  \n\\\u003ePain shoots through your body, but you stifle a yelp and do your best to focus on her touch instead.  \n\\\u003e \"You're the best, Cap'n.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Sure,\" you squeak.  \n  \n\\\u003eYou could swear the airplane is even smaller from the right seat. It takes a little doing to find a place for your right arm, especially since you're going to have to work the yoke with it, but with a little determination you get your seat position set in the space of a few minutes.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eWhitney takes her time fiddling with the height adjustment crank, though, so you try to get used to this whole right seat thing.  \n\\\u003eYou've never actually flown right seat before, and so far you don't like it.  \n\\\u003eGone is your nice, big-gauge layout, replaced by a bulky radio stack, more fuses than you care to count, and a smattering of auxiliary readouts scarcely bigger than silver dollars.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eIt would be tight enough that you could use her gauges, only some genius at Eastern - Aerodyne had thought it would be a good idea for their needles to sit a full goddamn centimeter off of the gauge face, and so the parallax is so bad they're practically useless.  \n\\\u003eYou really are going to have to trust her with this thing, aren't you?  \n\\\u003eThe reality of that sinks in more and more while she clicks her way through start-up, making generous use checklist taped to the window and brushing you periodically with her shoulder when she reaches for things.  \n\\\u003eCome on, she's got more stick-time than you do. Relax.  \n\\\u003eMaybe you would if you could at least read the goddamn airspeed indicator. As it was, you felt more like you were strapping into a rollercoaster than an airplane.  \n\\\u003eBut today's going to be a good day, right?\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou muster a grin as she finishes with the electrical system.  \n\\\u003e \"Got a brief for me, Captain Latham?\"  \n\\\u003ePart of you had been hoping to catch her off guard the way Ol' Steve always tried to catch you, but she doesn't even bother looking up from the checklist.  \n\\\u003e \"We're over western Kentucky. Echo wants us on the outer perimeter and keeping an eye out for anyone who looks like they might be scoping us out. The rest of the lot are staying at her flanks in case we miss anything. Skies clear. Temperature's at fifteen centigrade, dew point seven. Two-niner, niner-four on the barometer. Weather deck's saying we've got some moderate chop, but I reckon we're too heavy to be bothered much.  \n\\\u003eThe part of you that had been hoping for more of sheepish Whitney tingles with disappointment, but you do feel a little better knowing she's on top of things. You're less sure you like the whole scouting-ahead thing, though.  \n\\\u003e \"Sounds like a nice way to say we're a wild weasel,\" you sigh, your good-day hope dwindling a little, \"You nervous?\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney shrugs.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"Thought you guys had things pretty nailed down out through Kansas at least. Should I be?\"  \n\\\u003eYou answer her shrug with your own.  \n\\\u003e \"Ain't ever been out this far west. Reckon we'll just have to be careful.\"  \n\\\u003e \"You ain't ever been in a dogfight before, have you, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eA shiver runs down your spine. You dig up as much confidence as you can find and dump it into your voice.  \n\\\u003e \"I've practiced some maneuvers. I know how in theory, but--\"\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eTo your surprise, that of grin of hers comes back as strong as ever.  \n\\\u003e \"Well, you're in luck.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Huh?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Because I have.\"  \n\\\u003eShe grins so goddamn wide you'd have sworn she was yawning if it weren't for the expectant gleam in her eye.  \n\\\u003e \"You fucking serious?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Technically!\"  \n\\\u003eYou can't decide if you wish she'd drop that shit-eating grin. It's almost enough for your ego to wish for somber Whitney again, but there's definitely something intoxicating about this version.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eIt's that everything-is-possible feeling, like the first dip in the river after the ice melts, or the first bolt of a new project.  \n\\\u003eLike the first airplane you ever saw fly.  \n\\\u003eYou forgot how fucking good that feeling was. Better than goddamn sex.  \n\\\u003e \"Technically?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Technically. Now how's about cranking engine one for me?\"  \n\\\u003e You can't think of anything to say, so you nod, pull the leather back, haul yourself up onto the wing, and set to cranking.  \n  \n\\\u003e \"Contact!\"  \n\\\u003e \"Kaun-tacht!\"  \n\\\u003eAnother shiver works its way down your spine as you drop the starter, but it's warmer this time.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThere's just something about the way she shouts that call, something so familiar. Somehow it sounds like Spring.  \n\\\u003eAnd the engine jolts and churns and sputters.  \n\\\u003eThen it roars a second,  \n\\\u003eThen it clatters.  \n\\\u003eThen it misses. And clatters, and misses. And clatters, and misses.  \n\\\u003eAnd stops. You're going to have to crank this fucker again. Dammit.  \n\\\u003eWhitney peeks up over the leather, looking sheepish again afterall.  \n\\\u003e \"Son of a bitch flooded.\"  \n\\\u003e \"It's a bit temperamental. Fuck the checklist; try starting with the mix at cutoff and advance while it's cranking. Be quick about it, though.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Quick. Gotcha.\"  \n\\\u003eYou start cranking again.  \n  \n\\\u003e \"Contact!\"  \n\\\u003e \"Kahn-takt!\"  \n\\\u003eJolt, churn.  \n\\\u003eJolt, churn.  \n\\\u003eBark, clatter, roar.  \n\\\u003eThe prop wash works its way straight under your collar even as you flip it up. You suppress a shiver and scuttle to the other wing.  \n  \n\\\u003eCrank.  \n\\\u003e \"Contact!\"  \n\\\u003e \"Kahntakt!\"  \n\\\u003eJolt, churn, bark, clatter, roar.  \n\\\u003eShe's looking confident as ever by the time you climb back in again.  \n\\\u003eAny hesitation she had was gone with the churning of the prop wash, and it's almost as if she were never nervous at all.  \n\\\u003eShe's got the yoke seized in one paw and the throttles in the other, her eyes locked on the engine gauges. An air of cool confidence settles into her fur, smoothing out the tufts, pricking her ears, and leaving her tail slacked beside her.  \n\\\u003eYou can't help feeling the tiniest splash of envy seeing her so collected; fortunately she gives a little before too long.  \n\\\u003e \"Hey Anon?\"  \n\\\u003eSomehow her voice is just as rich over the headset intercom.  \n\\\u003e \"What do 'ya need, Captain Latham.\"  \n\\\u003eShe rolls her eyes conspicuously.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"For you to quit that, for one. Reckon you wouldn't know, but you're making me blush every time you pull that shit. Call me Whitney. call me Kid, whatever. But, you keep callin' me Captain, it's going to go to my head.\"  \n\\\u003e \"And what else?\"  \n\\\u003e \"V-speeds?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Ninety knots for best angle of climb, One-twenty for best rate. Stall at sixty-six, and one-thirty-two maneuvering.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Anything else I should know?\"  \n\\\u003e \"She processes pretty bad when you pull her tail off the ground, so be ready on the rudder.\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney nods dutifully.  \n\\\u003e \"Gotcha.\"  \n\\\u003e \"And keep an eye on the manifold pressure. Back the throttles out once we're free and climbing.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Wilco.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Ever launch from an airship before?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Nope! Reckon I come in shallow, make a quick job of lining up, and make sure I don't let the wind get under the wings, yeah?\"  \n\\\u003e \"That's about it.\"  \n\\\u003e \"You'll catch me if I fuck up, right?\"  \n\\\u003e \"As best I can. Ain't like I'm an expert.\"  \n\\\u003eHer tail twitches once at that, but she stills it again.  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah? Well let's see if Papa was bullshitting me when he said I was a natural, then, huh?\"  \n\\\u003eShe edges the throttles forward. You grab your seat frame for all you're worth and wave nervously to Tucker \"Whirligig\" Riley as he saddles up his smart little biplane.  \n\\\u003eFlank escort. That fucker's got an easy day ahead of him.  \n\\\u003eYou suppose this is what you get for showing up with an airplane with some range to it.  \n  \n\\\u003eWhitney taps the brakes and you jerk to a stop just shy of the runway, the first of the wind noise licking at the canopy glass like seafoam.  \n\\\u003eShe glances over at you, confidence eroding a little further.  \n\\\u003e \"Hell of a headwind, huh Anon?\"  \n\\\u003e \"That's the idea.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Alright. So I've got the yoke turned 'round so the ailerons hold the upwind wing down. I'm going to ease the throttles in, pin the tail as hard as I can, kick it around, then lift the tail up as I finish coming on with the power. Makes sense to me. That's what you did, right?\"  \n\\\u003e \"That's it.\"  \n\\\u003eShe mimes the throttle movement, kicks at the rudder, and works the elevator.  \n\\\u003eAnd then again, mouthing the steps to herself.  \n\\\u003eAnd again.  \n\\\u003eShe swallows and sighs.  \n\\\u003e \"You want to at least, you know, follow me on the controls?\"  \n\\\u003eYou set a finger on the yoke and get your feet ready to kick the rudder, though frankly you doubt you'd know any better what to do with it than she would.  \n\\\u003e \"Alright. She's all yours though, got it?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Got it,\" she barks, smoothing out a patch of fur, \"I can do it.\"  \n\\\u003eAnd then the sleepy rumble of the engines trips and bursts into a roar.  \n  \n\\\u003eThe airframe dances as the wings bite the wind and the tail comes around so fast that your head knocks against the window pane.  \n\\\u003eBut then she's straight and stomping on the rudder,\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eand then tail comes up and the walls crawl by, and then roll by, and flash away behind you.  \n\\\u003eThe wheels thump over the threshold and that sick sinking feeling pours into your gut as the nose drops, rolling hills spreading wide and green out in front of you.  \n\\\u003eSuddenly fifteen hundred feet is very close, seventy knots very fast, and the back of your mind remembers that it doesn't like heights so much.  \n\\\u003eBut then you're level, and then clawing your way into a climb, the air fresh, clear, and firm under your wings.  \n  \n\\\u003eWhitney trails off of a deranged howl and gasps for air.  \n\\\u003e \"Holy shit! I think that might be my absolute favorite thing I've ever done!\"  \n\\\u003eHer teeth shine like ivory in the sun glare on the canopy, her eyes and whiskers bright and laughing.  \n\\\u003eHer throttle paw shoots down and squeezes your hand so hard you swear she's going to break it.  \n\\\u003e \"The way the world just spreads out before you like that? The way you jump off and there ain't nothin' to catch you but the horizon? Fuck me, Cap'n; I ain't ever felt so free!\"  \n\\\u003eYou try to return some of the squeeze, but you can't get a whole lot of leverage the way she's got you pinned.  \n\\\u003e \"You did good, Whitney.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Good? I didn't even shimmy! It was right down the middle, through and through!\"  \n\\\u003eShe hangs as she finishes the last word, almost as if you'd caught her stealing table scraps.  \n\\\u003e \"I ought to shut the fuck up before I brag myself into an early grave, huh?\"  \n\\\u003eYou nod, trying not to look too pedantic.  \n\\\u003e \"Like my instructor always told me...,\"  \n\\\u003e \"...there are no old, bold pilots,\" you finish together.  \n\\\u003eHer manic grin tames, those big-ass ivory canines sheathing slowly behind her gums.  \n\\\u003e \"You human lot say that too, huh?\"  \n\\\u003eYou shrug.  \n\\\u003e \"My instructor did. Don't know where he got it.\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney leans back in her seat and glances over to you as the vertical speed indicator settles down.  \n\\\u003e \"Okay,\" she yips, \"My turn. The most useless things are:....\"  \n\\\u003e \"The altitude above you, the runway behind you, and a quarter second ago.\"  \n\\\u003eShe matches your shrug.  \n\\\u003e \"We always said 'tenth-of-a-second' and added 'the air in your fuel tank', but I guess something makes it across the water, huh?\"  \n  \n\\\u003eYou're pretty sure she levels out at 3,500 feet, but it's difficult to say. You'd never set the barometer on your little backup altimeter, and aren't in a hurry to admit you forgot.  \n\\\u003eLast night's rain is long gone, and the sky spreads so stark and empty before you that you have to strain to see the horizon. A fresh, cool breeze churns through the cabin vents and stirs the air, it washing so clean it actually keeps your nose from stuffing.  \n\\\u003eEcho's falling away now. The yawning hulk of her envelope shrinks until she looks like a sleek, silver toy. Out the left window she dangles as if from fishing line, bobbing with the shivers of turbulence that brush across your wings.  \n\\\u003eAnd then you break off, leaving her to slide from the window to your seven o'clock.  \n\\\u003eThen it's just the two of you, alone with the throb of the engines.  \n  \n\\\u003eTime wears on awhile, the sky clear and empty, and the cabin silent.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThe sun is just a little off your six o'clock, but by the top of the second hour it's high enough to leak in through the eyebrow windows. It casts bright patches of light across the glare-guard and cooks the leather until you can smell the oils.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eIt's a strange smell: half sweet, half bitter and rotting. You've never been able to put your finger on whether or not you like it.  \n\\\u003eEventually you catch yourself skirting the edge of a half-formed dream and jolt back to reality.  \n\\\u003eWhitney unzips her jacket and spreads the lapels out to her shoulders. Then she pays you an understanding glance.  \n\\\u003e \"Don't worry, Cap'n, you didn't miss anything. There ain't shit, not for miles.\"  \n\\\u003eYou shift and press your face against your window, looking back as far along the tail as you can.  \n\\\u003eYou can certainly see what she means. There's nothing to see but forest and little plots of farmland, and no one to share the sky with save for the handfuls of little black birds that flit about the trees below you.  \n\\\u003e \"Where's Echo?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Reckon about a hundred miles East by North East, assuming they haven't changed speed or direction. I could give you a better bearing, but I'd have to do a little math.\"  \n\\\u003eYou shake your head and rub your eyes, surprised to find a little sleep in them.  \n\\\u003e \"Hundred miles, huh, even with them following us? Didn't realize I actually fell asleep; how long was I out?\"  \n\\\u003e \"About forty-five minutes. And that's a hundred miles, give or take fifteen or so. I haven't been in contact for a good half-hour, so that's extrapolated from a pretty old measurement. They asked us to keep quiet unless we found something. Just in case anyone was listening in, you know?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah.\"  \n\\\u003eSuddenly you remember something that makes you wince.  \n\\\u003e \"Hey, they didn't ask where I was, did they?\"  \n\\\u003eShe smiles deviously.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"That weather guy did. I told 'em you were messing with the radio equipment in the back.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Thanks, Kid.\"  \n\\\u003e \"What, you think I was going to sell you out?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Well, you could'a woken me. I didn't think we'd see anything nearby either, but they are payin' me for this job same as you. It was nice of you getting the airplane ready, but we're partners proper. You ain't my servant, and I ain't a worthless sack 'a shit.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah, well..,\"  \n\\\u003eShe cocks her head, hesitating.  \n\\\u003e \"...you were kinda' cute laying there, and it feels good to have a passenger fall asleep while you're flying, especially bumping around the way we were. Besides, I reckon it's my fault for keeping us up so late last night.\"  \n\\\u003eThere's actually some regret in her voice.  \n\\\u003eShit, was that what this was about?  \n\\\u003eA little bit of guilt sinks into your hand and it flops down onto her paw again.  \n\\\u003e \"Hey, don't worry about it, okay? Just glad you're doing better.\"  \n\\\u003eShe stifles a yawn herself, stroking the yoke with her paw.  \n\\\u003e \"I'm flyin'. I'm always better flyin'. Can't get cornered. Can't get locked in. No matter what happens, you ain't ever helpless. Don't know about you, but that goes a long way for me. Certainly helps that everything's so damn pretty all the time.\"  \n  \n\\\u003eSomehow she's still smiling, even as the miles drift by toward the Kentucky border.  \n\\\u003eToward the Western border of the Eastern Union proper, and out into her wilder territories.  \n\\\u003eYou grimace a little.  \n\\\u003e \"I'd like it better if we weren't a goddamn weasel.\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney grips a little tighter at the yoke.  \n\\\u003e \"We're about to cross the border, ain't we? This river?\"  \n\\\u003eThe meandering strip of brown-blue water that's been in advancing from the middle-distance slides under the nose and out of sight.  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah. That's it. We're in Louisiana territory now.\"  \n\\\u003e \"I mean, it can't really be that bad, right? No one would build farms anywhere near the border.\"  \n\\\u003e \"I 'dunno, but I've heard reports of pirates further East than this, and we got attacked in our own damn port. You said you'd been in a dogfight before; you, uh, want to tell me about that?\"  \n\\\u003eHer spirits falter, but she clings to them.  \n\\\u003e \"Ribbon games. You hitch a paper streamer to the airplane and chase each other, and the streamer breaks real easy if anyone touches it. Team with the longest streamers at the end wins the day. I was in a league, actually. We weren't the best ever, but we did alright for ourselves.\"\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"Sounds dangerous as shit.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Oh, absolutely. Dad hated it, but he was a racer, so he couldn't really say anything. I scared him real good a couple of times; bet it really put things into perspective when I told him I was going to go do this.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Got any stories?\"  \n\\\u003eHer laugh crackles flatly over the intercom.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"Oh boy, do I. Let's see--.\"  \n\\\u003eShe stops dead. The color drains from her voice, leaving it flat and serious.  \n\\\u003e \"Contact, one o'clock low.\"  \n  \n\\\u003eYour heart sinks into your gut and your nerves electrify.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eHoly shit, this might actually be it. This might really be fucking happening.  \n\\\u003eYou're the real deal, and you might be about to do the real thing.  \n\\\u003eYou can do this.  \n\\\u003eYou hunt the horizon between twelve and two, suddenly very glad you aren't alone. Then there's something soft in your hand, and you realize you're squeezing Whitney's paw again.  \n\\\u003e \" One-thirty, moving oblique. You see 'em, Anon?\"  \n\\\u003eYou hunt harder, and then a little frantically. The sky still looks empty.  \n\\\u003e \"Two o'clock, moving to three.\"  \n\\\u003eThere's some urgency in Whitney's voice now. She pulls her paw free and points a nail through the window.  \n\\\u003e \"Three-thirty. What'da we do, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eThen you see it: a spot of canopy glint against the rolling green and the faint silhouette of wings stealing over the forest.  \n\\\u003eCamouflage. Not even flat green, but proper goddamn camouflage. Adrenaline leaks down the back of your neck like a melting ice cube.  \n\\\u003eHas he seen you?\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou don't think so. He's holding course, and now you're behind his eyebrow windows.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eOf course, it could be a trap.  \n\\\u003eBut you suppose you're here to find out.  \n\\\u003e \"Should I get on his six? We're 'gonna lose him in a sec. Give me somethin' Cap'n. Please.\"  \n\\\u003eYou swallow the lump building in your throat.  \n\\\u003e \"Do it. Let's see where he goes.\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney rolls into a steep bank and that sinking feeling comes back as she lets the nose slide down. Your altimeter unwinds swiftly, popping your ears as you cross the two thousand foot mark.  \n\\\u003e \"Reckon we ought to get under him, Cap'n? We could see him a lot better against the sky, and he wouldn't see us even if he's got mirrors.\"  \n\\\u003eThe lump comes back while you consider that. She's right, but he looks mighty low to you, probably to keep someone from doing just that. You'll be real close to the trees.  \n\\\u003e \"I can do it, Cap'n. The way he's headed, there's a decent chance he finds Echo. We can't afford to lose him, and I ain't keen on letting him know we're here.\"  \n\\\u003eNeither are you.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eShe starts to shallow her spiral, but you shake your head.  \n\\\u003e \"You're right. Do it. And let me know if you want to trade.\"  \n\\\u003eShe smirks a little as she pushes the dive back in.  \n\\\u003e \"What, turn it over to you as soon as the fun starts?\"  \n\\\u003eYou doubt she's being completely genuine, but you'd be lying to claim it wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to hear right then.  \n\\\u003eA little geforce tugs at you as she pulls out of the dive, fresh speed sending you skimming out over the trees and up your target's six o'clock, the leaves so close you can see them dancing in the wind.  \n\\\u003eIt must be at least a hundred feet, but as you settle into a valley you'll be damned if it doesn't feel like you could lean out the window and drag your finger through them.  \n\\\u003e \"You know we're fucked if we lose an engine right now, right?\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney nods grimly.  \n\\\u003e \"Reckon we are.\"  \n  \n\\\u003eYou've been shadowing for nearly an hour now, and your target's white belly still dangles steadily in your eyebrow windows.  \n\\\u003eWhitney carves through the valleys with a slow, easy grace that's difficult not to trust, and after awhile you'd turned away from the greenery whipping by outside and settled to scanning the radio.  \n\\\u003eSo far there's been nothing to hear save a Kentucky AM station that peeked through the static maybe twenty minutes ago.  \n\\\u003eYou're almost starting to doubt your assumptions. This guy hasn't been flying any kind of a search pattern. He could be anyone; camouflage would go just as far hiding from pirates as it would being one.\u0026nbsp;\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eBut you've plotted Echo's course a few times now yourself. Seventy miles, give or take a few. And definitely closing fast.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eMuch further, and he'll be in visual range.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e You can't shake the feeling he knows exactly what he's looking for, and has at least some idea of where to find it.  \n\\\u003eYou're going to have to find out one way or the other pretty goddamn soon.  \n\\\u003e \"Hey, Whitney.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Was'up?\"  \n\\\u003eShe doesn't so much as flick a whisker when she speaks, eyes flashing periodically between the valley and your target with sharp, mechanical focus.  \n\\\u003e \"We're going to be in visual range inside twenty minutes. We're going to have to deal with this.\"  \n\\\u003e \"I know.\"  \n\\\u003eThis time there's no mistaking the mounting uncertainty in her voice. You wish you had a plan to reassure her with, but so far you haven't come up with much. There's no telling what he's going to do once he knows you're there. Part of you wants to stay on his six and wait for him to try to call someone with Echo's location, but it wouldn't be hard to miss the call, and there was no saying if you could down him in time even if you caught it.  \n\\\u003eYou decide to give her the best you've got.  \n\\\u003e \"I've been thinking we could try to bait him. We could break off and climb, then fly out ahead like we never saw him. Maybe draw him off far enough.\"  \n\\\u003eWhitney bites her lip.  \n\\\u003e \"We'd have to turn our backs to him. And then we've still got to make our way back to Echo.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah, but we've probably got more fuel to burn than he does. We could also just call up Echo and tell them what's up, but then, if this isn't on the up and up, we've almost certainly got a fight on our hands. It's your call, Captain Latham.\"  \n\\\u003e \"My call? Is this some kind of test, Anon? Because I'm thinkin' now ain't the time.\"  \n\\\u003eYou shake your head eagerly.  \n\\\u003e \"I just don't want to make it alone.\"  \n\\\u003eShe curses under her breath.  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah. We're supposed to look out for Echo, and I didn't come out here to do half a job. Let's fucking do it. Reckon I better get on the gun, huh?\"  \n\\\u003eYou stop just short of agreeing, though it takes you a second to remember why.  \n\\\u003eShe's got the stick time on you, and the ribbon games....  \n\\\u003e \"You good on a mounted gun?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shrugs.  \n\\\u003e \"I'm good with a regular gun. It'll have to do.\"  \n\\\u003e \"I mean, I could--\"  \n\\\u003e \"No.\"  \n\\\u003eHer voice is stern and convicted, and you can't help being taken a little aback. Your spine electrifies all over again. You hadn't realized it, but you must have been hoping she'd say yes. Maybe you'd even assumed she would.  \n\\\u003eBut you're not getting out of this, are you?  \n\\\u003eA strange, numbing fear spreads through your face and hands as if the capillaries in them were icing over.  \n\\\u003eBut you'd signed up for this, And what the fuck kind of a partner would you be to throw her to the sharks? It's your airplane, like she said. What about that guy you're supposed to be? What happened to him? You ain't a coward, right? You hadn't thought so.  \n\\\u003e \"Anon, I don't know this airplane like you do. I don't speak her language yet. I don't know what she feels like when she's about to stall; I don't know how much creaking in her wings is too much; I don't even know if she has fucking aerobatic carbs. I appreciate your faith, but it's not a good idea. Trade with me.\"  \n\\\u003eYou put on your best brave face and suppress an uneven sigh. You can do this. It wouldn't be right to make her, and she's right. But shit, she at least has some idea of what she's doing; the most aerobatic thing you've ever done is fucking spin training.  \n\\\u003e \"You sure?\"  \n\\\u003eHer muzzle twists into a grim half-snarl.  \n\\\u003e \"You made me captain today, and I'm telling you to fucking trade.  \n\\\u003eYou nod, and she softens a little.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou'd done your best to look like you were just being practical. She must have seen right through you though, because she sets a paw on your shoulder.  \n\\\u003e \"You're 'gonna do fine, Cap'n. I'm not going to let him crawl up your six; I promise. We're going to be okay.\"  \n\\\u003eThe radio smooths out any uncertainty in her voice, but you can't help noticing that reassuring paw of hers is shaking pretty bad.  \n\\\u003e \"We're going to be okay...,\" she breathes again, shutting her eyes.  \n\\\u003eYou get the impression she didn't mean for that second one to transmit.  \n\\\u003eThen she goes so quiet you could swear you can hear your ears ringing over the engines.  \n  \n\\\u003eFrustration joins the anxiety in your blood, or maybe it's disgust.  \n\\\u003eFucking really?\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou've got nothing to say? She needs you; you did enough damage hesitating the way you did!\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eCome on, you've got to give her something!  \n\\\u003eYou've got to be who you're supposed to be.  \n\\\u003eBut then the radio pops as she pulls her headset jacks, and it's too late.  \n\\\u003eYou turn to squeeze that shaking paw instead, but she's already hauling herself through the aft bulkhead.  \n\\\u003e \"Godspeed, Cap'n,\" she shouts over the engine roar as her tail slips out of sight.  \n\\\u003e \"Good luck, Whitney,\" you call, but there's no chance in hell she could have heard you.  \n  \n\\\u003eSo you slide your way back into the left seat and wrap your hand around the yoke, index finger settling onto the transmit button, and middle cuddling up to the trigger guard.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eNo more than a week ago that little cockpit was your whole life, but for some reason it feels awfully cavernous without her pinned awkwardly against you.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eLonely cold leaks back in through the windows and warrens, and you zip your jacket the rest of the way. Fifteen long, rusty seconds creak by, your stomach souring with each. Finally the radio pops again and comes alive with a flutter of wind noise.  \n\\\u003e \"I'm in position, Cap'n. Tailgun's hot.\"  \n\\\u003eShe pauses, and even over the radio you can make out a little bit of a whimper.  \n\\\u003e \"Hard to believe this is real, ya' know? Some days my Ribbon team and I really cleaned up. Fuck, it felt like we were invincible. But this ain't 'gonna be like that, is it?\"  \n\\\u003e \"I don't know, Whitney.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah. Trouble is, I'm pretty sure I do.\"  \n\\\u003eThe radio clicks out with a hollow pop.  \n\\\u003eIt's time.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou advance the throttles, take a deep breath, and steady your voice.  \n\\\u003e \"Echo in the blind, Squawking Bird. Contact on my position. Fifty miles west by southwest, closing. Intentions unknown. I'm going to try to draw him off.\"  \n\\\u003eAny luck and your camouflaged friend wasn't monitoring the right frequency to catch what you said, but there's a good chance he still knows you transmitted something, and that means he knows you're there.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eAnd now he's sliding by.  \n\\\u003eWhatever's coming, it's on now.  \n\\\u003eYou flip up the trigger guard, just in case.  \n\\\u003eAnd then down again, and back up.  \n\\\u003eAnd again.  \n\\\u003eFuck, Whitney isn't kidding.  \n\\\u003eNot a one of them feels real.  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Silver Lining (Archival Version)","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1349888-silver-lining-chapter-6.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1366901-silver-lining-chapter-8.json"}}