tention was directed

towards the ground, searching it with the sharp-eyed concentration of a

bird of prey; the fingers of her right hand curled lightly around the

pistol grip of her rifle, ready and able to bring down a running Mute

in mid-manoeuvre with the aid of what the First Family weapon designers

proudly termed 'an auto-ranging laser-powered optical sight' that threw

a red aiming dot on the chosen target.

Any wingman who flew in a straight line and took more than ten seconds

to line up on his target was liable to find a ten-inch crossbow bolt

spoiling his digestion. If they didn't go straight through you, the'

barbed points made it impossible to pull them out without tearing

yourself apart.

They had to be cut out, preferably by a field surgeon, and it was said

that they were often dipped in some kind of shit that caused a

non-fatal wound to turn gangrenous.

Jodi had been shot at during punitive actions against groups of

runaways from Mute work-camps. Where they got their weapons from was a

mystery. There had been unconfirmed reports that small bands of

Tracker renegades were involved but, to Jodi, such stories did not make

sense.

With overground radiation levels still dangerously high, why would any

foot-loose Trackers waste time setting up a trading operation when they

would not survive long enough to enjoy any benefits that might

accrue?

And what could they possibly hope to gain?

Despite the ruthless pacification of the overground above the Inner and

Outer States of the Federation, none of it beyond the guarded

perimeters of the work camps and way-stations could be regarded as one

hundred per cent 'safe'.

Even though Trail-Blazer expeditions might have killed everything that

moved several times over, groups of hostiles kept infiltrating the

fire-zones where, despite the danger, they stayed holed-up, waiting for

an opportunity to make a sneak attack on a way-station or a

lightly-armed wagon train on a re-supply mission.

Acting on an inexplicable hunch, Jodi cut the motor and side-slipped

silently out of the low cloud. She was startled to see two large

groups of Mutes break from the cover of the tree line. They were

moving in the direction of the wagon train. Jodi yanked back on the

control colunm pulling the Skyhawk into a steep climbing turn. Her one

thought was to reach cloud cover. No crossbow bolts followed her into

the cold damp greyness but that was no guarantee she had not been

spotted. Mutes rarely wasted their precious crossbow bolts. The Field

Intelligence reports she had read all stressed this point. The bolts

were greatly prized and in desperately short supply like the crude but

highly efficient bows that fired them.

Back inside the low layer of cloud, Jodi switched on her motor, flying

at the slowest (and quietest) speed she could without losing

altitude.

She called up Booker and Yates and told them to join her above the

northern edge of the cloud bank then radioed a brief report to The

Lady. Hartmann told her to hit the Mutes before they could mount an

attack on the wagon train. Hoping that the thick cloud would muffle

the noise of her motor, Jodi pushed the throttle wide open and climbed

southwards through the murk. Breaking out into the clear, brilliant

blue sky above, she made a one hundred and eighty degree turn, cut the

motor again, and glided back towards the advancing Mutes. Below her,

away to the left, she saw a tiny arrowhead silhouetted against the

white cloud tops. It was ates, converging on the rendezvous point.

The Skyhawks, with their inflated aerofoil section wings possessed

excellent glide characteristics and, in optimum weather conditions,

could soar on a rising current of air, staying aloft for hours without

using their motors. Silent soaring flight offered a measure of

tactical surprise but speed and direction were dictated by the

prevailing weather and the thermals were not always where you needed