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of cheap habs showed that the area’s fortunes had been in decline for some time。
Jagdea brought the staff car she’d borrowed to a halt； switched off the engine and got out。 Lights
burned brightly around the shutter edges of the house she was looking for。
Nervously adjusting her uniform； she hurried up the front steps。 Was that singing she could
hear？ She found an iron bell…pull and yanked on it。 Service bells tinkled faraway in the house。
After a moment； the door opened。 The hallway inside was dimly lit。 She found herself facing a
high…function domestic servitor； its silver form engraved with intricate chasework。
“Oh；” she said； surprised。 “I was looking for… is this 133 Gehnstal？”
“Yes； commander；” it replied； digitising the gentle； mannered voice of an elderly male through
his voxponder。 The servitor had recognised her rank。
“I’m looking for the billet used by the Apostles。 The 101。”
“Please come in；” the servitor said。
It was definitely singing she could hear in the background。 A recording of Frans Talfer’s
Gaudete Terra； with male voices booming along。
“Follow me；” the servitor said。 “May I ask your name； commander？”
“Jagdea；” she replied。
The servitor’s exquisite silver hands reached out and smoothly opened a double set of panelled
doors； letting through a bright glow light and the full force of the music。
“Commander Jagdea；” it announced。
The singing stopped； but the music languished on； fizzing slightly through the speaker horn of
the recording player on a side table。 Seekan rose out of an armchair to greet her。 “Good evening；
commander。”
Around the room were the other six Apostles。 All of them； Seekan included； were wearing full
dress uniforms； heavy with medals。 They had glasses in their hands and had obviously been drinking
for a while。 Faces were flushed； and jackets undone。
Seekan looked as fresh as night frost。
“I’m sorry；” Jagdea said。 “I’m interrupting。”
“Not at all；” said Seekan。 “Domo； a drink for the commander。” The servitor crossed immediately
to a lacquered drink stand。
“Is this the Phantine leader？” one of the Apostles asked。 He was a big man； his eyes red and
hooded from too many amasecs。
“It is indeed； Ludo。 Commander Jagdea； may I present Major Ludo Ramia。”
“Mamzel；” the big man nodded。
“Major Ziner Krone； Major Jeric Suhr。”
Suhr was a sharp…faced； skinny man。 He nodded curtly。 Krone was of noble build； a Glavian
perhaps； by the look of his gleaming black skin。 His face was badly scarred on the left cheek。 He too
nodded； then busied himself changing the recorder disk。
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“Captain Guis Gettering。” Gettering was pugnacious and jowly； with short； sand…white hair。 He
was standing by the hearth； a crystal balloon in his hand。 “Mamzel commander；” he grunted。
“And Major Dario Quint。”
Quint。 Ace of aces。 Reclined in a battered tub chair in the far corner； he seemed more like an
observer than a participant。 He was a surprisingly small man； well…proportioned； compact； his oval
face boyish； though his hair was zinc…grey。 His hands were folded across the breast of his uniform
jacket。 He stared directly at her and held her gaze； though he made no sound。
The servitor handed Jagdea a flute of joiliq； and she took it even though she didn’t want it。
“I—” she began； and cleared her throat。 “I thought it was appropriate for me to come here in
person and express my wing’s appreciation for your assistance。 Especially given the cost。”
“You lost a machine too； didn’t you？” Ramia asked。
“Yes； I did。 But the loss of an Apostle—”
Ramia snorted。 “Harlsson was an odious shit。 He couldn’t fly worth a fart。”
Jagdea was startled。 “I… what？”
“Detestable man；” Suhr agreed。 “Don’t look so bloody shocked； mamzel。 Harlsson was all luck
and flair。 Not a gram of skill in his whole body。 It’s a miracle he lasted as long as he did。”
Jagdea frowned。 She put her drink down； untouched； and said； “I wanted to express my
appreciation and my sympathies。 I’ve done that now； so I think I’ll go。”
“Saving the neck of that upstart boy； wasn’t he？” Gettering asked suddenly。 Jagdea paused and
turned back。
“What？”
“Harlsson。 Got stung getting a Razor off that boy of yours； mamzel。 Isn’t that right？ The boy
who thought naming his machine Double Eagle was a bright idea。”
“That matter is over and done； captain； though I believe Pilot Officer Marquall is still waiting on
your letter of apology。 And no； you’re not right。 Marquall had already shaken the Razor。”
“Had he now？” said Gettering。
“He used his rocket assist；” said Suhr。
“Did he？” Gettering laughed。 Ramia chuckled too。 “So the boy was your casualty？”
“No；” said Jagdea。 “Marquall recovered control of his machine。”
There was a look on Gettering’s face that suggested he was about to accuse her of lying。 Instead；
he just shook his head and looked away。 The recorder started blaring again。 Krone had put on
Nuncius’s Salve Beatus； loud and strident。 Jagdea walked out of the room。
“Commander！” Seekan caught up with her in the hall。 Behind him； the drunken singing had
resumed。
“You’ll have to forgive my men； Commander Jagdea。 They’re dealing with their loss in their
own way。”
“By throwing a boorish party and defaming the dead man？”
“Pretty much；” said Seekan。 “Sentiment does not figure largely in the souls of those men；
Jagdea。 They’re steeped in death。 Immune to its touch。”
“Clearly not immortal；” she snapped。
“No。 That’s not what I meant。 Your unit； now。 I imagine there’s sadness。 Low spirits。 Mourning
the loss of a friend。”
Jagdea nodded。 That was exactly the mood in the billet when she’d left。 A few were raising a
glass to Clovin’s shade； but there was a general； numbing gloom。
“I remember that myself；” Seekan said。 “In the early days。 But we Apostles are war…weary。
When I said we are immune to the touch of death； I meant we just don’t feel its bite any more。 No
sense of grief； no loss； no regret； no sadness。 Just an inevitability。 When an Apostle dies； we put on
our dress white and our ridiculous numbers of medals； and we get filthy drunk。 We rage； we sing；
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we drink some more。 We do it to show fate； or fortune； or whatever else lurks out there in the dark；
that we don’t care。”
She had no reply。 His voice dropped slightly。 “We’re freaks； Jagdea。 Do you know why we’re
Apostles？ Not because we’re especially fine pilots。 Not at all。 We’re Apostles because we’ve had
unnatural luck。 We should have died long ago； but there’s been some oversight and our souls have
not been claimed。 So we go on flying； and killing。 And eventually； the oversight is corrected。 Today；
it was Harlsson’s turn。”
“That’s a very bleak view；” said Jagdea。 “Was Harlsson really that disliked？”
“Who knows？ Probably not。 He was a reasonable pilot。 But none of us are friends； you see。
There’s no point。 By the time you become an Apostle； friends are a vulnerability none of us chooses
to afford。”
“I pity you；” Jagdea said。
Seekan shrugged his shoulders。 “We don’t need pity； either。” He paused。 “Do you know what I
have to do tomorrow morning？”
“No。”
“My driver’s taking me down the coast to Madenta MAB。 There’s a pilot stationed there with
the 567th。 His name’s Saul Cirksen。 Seventy…two kills； superb service record。 I will be inviting him
to fill Harlsson’s spot。”
“Will he accept？” she asked。
“If you are invited to become an Apostle； Jagdea； you’re not allowed to decline。”
She opened the front door。 The night air was cold and smelled of rain。 From the drawing room
behind them； the raucous singing swelled to a lusty chorus。
“Thank you for your pains； commander；” Seekan said。 “They’re not as unappreciated as you
might think。”
Jagdea made a quick； clipped salute。 “Good flying；” she said。
Coast Highway； 05。50
At first he thought it was a summer storm； glimmering the edges of the pre…dawn sky with sheet
lightning。
It took him a few moments to realise it wasn’t。
He brought his heavy transport to a full stop； and jumped out onto the rockcrete surface of the
hardtop； his scope in his hand。 The other seven trucks in the convoy grumbled to a halt behind him。
The convoy was an