Dawson gave Al a small smile.
---
Quartermaster Randolph watched the action unfold on the course below. Beside him the Course Operator stood with a clipboard. On the balcony rail, a large timer clicked off the seconds.
Below the two, a veritable city of hollow houses, artificial trees, and mock-up airship corridors spread out before them. This then was the the Duchess Own Patrol's Urban Combat Center. Converted from an airship hangar, the space provided DOP members ample space to run a variety of drills and mock encounters. Normally used by security teams and airtroopers, this very early morning only one participant sent up echoes of gunfire.
"Who is that? I don't recognize the uniform from here," asked the brawny quartermaster.
The mousy man ticked off a box, "Flight Officer, Warbird Pilot. Loomis, Dawson."
More shots rang out followed by metallic dings. The Operator ticked off more boxes.
"How long as he been at it?"
"40 minutes. The advanced course takes 45 minutes on average. Not counting parachuting from an airship and 4 hours of rucking from Palatine Hill to the UCC."
The mousy man tapped a button. Lights on a section of streets and buildings dimmed. Another adjacent set flicked on. The participant holstered his pistol and jogged into the new area. He drew the shotgun slung across his backpack. The participant breached the first door seconds later. Room after room he swept. Took cover as simulated enemies "fired" at him. Cleared deliberate malfunctions in his weapons. Pulled a battle rifle slung over his shoulder. Emerged into an airship corridor.
"How in the Depths did a pilot even qualify for airtrooper testing?"
Another checkmark. "He's been training privately since Flight School. By regulations, anyone in good standing can qualify for the Airtrooper Stripe."
CQC fighting. Bounded crate-to-bulkhead. Returned "fire". Piped in cacophonies of battle sounds. Simulated explosions.
Finally, the participant, panting and sweating, emerged onto a section of shadowy target range. Metal targets moved across and popped up. Shot and ding. At intervals more distant than the previous. Shot and ding. One last long shot and the metal target wobbled and fell.
The Operator flicked another switch. Buzzers sounded and the lights came up. The participant, Dawson Loomis, looked up at the balcony. The Operator offered the clipboard to the Quartermaster as he picked up a microphone. The Quartermaster whistled softly.
"At ease. Congratulations, Loomis. You are the first pilot to pass the Airtrooper School Exam." The mousy man adjusted his glasses and added more lightly, "Are you sure you don't want to join the Airtrooper Corps? You've earned the stripe. They could use you."
"Thank you, Captain Tvelti," replied Dawson as he adjusted his chest armor.
"Crazy bastard," muttered the Quartermaster.
---
Two days prior...
To say the Loomis clan "lived" on Cobalt Street was a bit of an understatement. Al and Mavis did not know this, but a better description would be that the Loomis family owned Cobalt Street. Or at the least some square blocks of the neighborhood. Officially though, the Loomis Compound, as it was known, took the up the middle of one block. Not that one would guess that from walking down the street...
Tasteful brownstone rowhouses lined broad avenues dotted by gardens and mature trees. Shops presided at the end of blocks and corners. Small parks and courtyards nestled behind the rears of buildings. Scattered cars hugged curbs. Kids played games and drew chalk art on sidewalks. Friendly locals lounged at storefronts. Scratchy
music drifted on the breeze.
All-in-all Cobalt Street and this part of town in general bespoke petty bourgeoisie. People that had the money, education, connections, and simple good fortune to climb up into the burgeoning middle class of New Boromih.
...or driving down the street. Dawson had called his Uncle Otti, and the small, plump man made his appearance in record time. His small, sleek sports car squealed up to the department store, and in short order all three of them had departed.
After giving Otti the basics of what had transpired, Otti had grumbled a bit before putting on a winning smile. He turned out to be an affable sort and cracked only slightly ribald jokes. Driving time, after all, was not for business but pleasure. Within a few minutes, the four of themselves found themselves in front of a
brownstone with subdued orange accents. The afternoon sun showed a spacious interior and a visible dearth of persons within.
All of which concealed a cunning trap. Oh, yes. A trap of the most devious and horrific kind. Mavis had seen this ploy before. Al perhaps not. But nevertheless the trap sprang as soon as the door opened.
The Loomis clan was a gregarious sort. Turned out that three rowhouses had been conjoined and hollowed out into a small mansion. Well, a mansion without all the gaudy pieces of the nouveau rich and the ancient pieces of the old money. No, no, the Loomii, Loomises, Loomisi, however you called them, were all about
comfort. Overstuffed chairs, shelves full of books, tea sets and coffee tables, patterned rugs from Pleshin. Smells of baking bread met them first.
By then they could not escape. The horde descended on them without mercy. The first, and undoubtedly the most disturbing, were the Aunt Mathildes Three. All three greeted the newcomers with knowing smiles and seemed to mirror each others' movements. Even finishing each others sentences. Then came Big Mama Loomis. She of old friendship with Lady Vesand. By her own admission, the two still split even on rummy wins even after all these years. She was, of course, devastated to hear the news, and disappeared after introductions. A soft-spoken woman about Dawson's age, but bearing more Trubc heritage, introduced herself as Skatji. And her baby daughter, little Pjen. Pjen in particular stared wide-eyed, big, dark Trubcian eyes, at Mavis, or more specifically, at her flaming red hair.
Finally, the first couple themselves made appearances. No one would ever doubt that Dawson was their child. Dawson's intensity came from his mother, obviously. She came across as a grave, intelligent woman that, like Lady Vesand, overshadowed her frail appearance. That she walked with a cane did not diminish the steely will she seemed to exude. Still, while formal, she was quite pleasant and totally, thankfully, apolitical. Mr. Loomis though was the life of the party, and between the big grin (so much like Dawson's when he showed it), and the enthusiastic handshakes, he defined himself as the most extroverted member of the family.
Which said a lot. After introductions, the horde declared an impromptu party. Raucous conversations erupted. The kitchen revved up. Wine corks popped. Good whisky poured. The party moved
outside as fresh bread, olive oil, fruit, and cheese attended the gathering. Followed by dining on roasted pheasants served on huge trays of roasted vegetables. The phonograph whispered melodies into the grapevines as family and guests wiled away the evening. Mrs. Loomis showed off her prize roses, a red as Mavis' hair, with well-earned pride. At one point a bottle or two of the Harper family label, good vintages, appeared suddenly as libations ran low. Al found herself the center of attention as Big Mama kept all but shoveling pheasant onto her plate.
"You need more protein to keep up your strength," Grandmother Loomis said with a wink. She also packed up take-away dinners for the rest of Al's family. And extended an invitation to her whole clan.
The conversation with the Mathildes proved... intriguing. Al and Dawson did not know the particulars. But Dawson did give Mavis a look after the conversation. Mainly because his aunts watched him like a hawk for a few minutes, and began whispering among themselves. Apparently, whatever was said worked. And in return, they mentioned to Mavis about hearing recently about a Harper-to-be overseas...
...and also, in a quiet moment, chatted with Al about writing to her boyfriend. Somehow knowing he sent a small mountain of letters.
Apparently, matchmakers are going to matchmake.
Dawson, with total sincerity, denied knowing and telling them anything if so pressed.
For a few hours, the Unluckies forgot their troubles.
Eventually, Otti drove the two home.
---
The next day...
Dawson would not say he was in a foul mood, but the interview, however courteous, had left a sour note. The Lead Detective himself had put in an appearance. Rightfully so, given Dawson's involvement. Still between three Graycoats, one pilot-tailor, and one ex-adventuring lawyer uncle, the whole affair wrapped up without issue. What would come of the situation, of course, was anyone's guess.
Still that give Dawson time to meet up with his wingmates.
Dawson could not help but smile at the bistro. Of course Otti would recommend this one. Dawson liked it too. Little family place. Good food. Everyone minded their business.
Dawson remained neutral after Al passed around their orders. Internally, he did not want to deal with bloodbeasts again. Of all the beings he had encountered, bloodbeasts had traumatized him the worst. But orders were orders, and Dawson calmly sipped his tea.
Jinx, coat now glossy and sleek, mewed on her harness and almost leaped on the saucer of milk. He gave her a little ear scratch and looked at his wingmates.
"What I want to know is why we are needed now. I somehow doubt 'light combat duty' will remain that."
Sipping his tea, he added, "I second Mavis though. A 400 year-old politician is intimidating to say the least. I have complete confidence in you, Al. If anything, your street smarts will be your ace-in-the-hole. I have said it before, and I will say it again. You are a fine officer."
He tapped his chin in thought. "This will be an interesting opportunity to see the Old World."
At lighter topics, he couldn't help but agree that medic training was sorely needed. The Unluckies had, well, the bad luck of finding "medically necessary" scenarios. At the mention of her sister, Dawson realized how deeply recent events affected Mavis. He offered her a big hug and more thanks.
---
The first of the month
Dawson felt a bit of relief at the short shore leave. That meant that the meetings with the company were short and sweet. And his family had enough issues dealing with the fallout from Artie's near murder. And the incrimination of a known Loomis fixer. All-in-all, one hell of a mess that sent family members flying all about. Dawson, thankfully, had other arrangements to take care of. So after a bit of formal exercise, he bought a personal copy of his service pistol, visited Rebeka for an interview, checked on Artie, checked on Mork, caught Mavis' performance, and caught up with the few survivors of the
Inventionis.
Things to do.
And packed for another deployment. Hopefully, one that would keep his personal effects intact!
Thus he found himself standing with his wingmates and their mewling luggage.
His spirits proved likewise high and his blues immaculate. He had discovered, quite by accident, that his mess deck was woefully out of date. His deck now included Combat Ribbons for the Forest, Bloodbeasts, and Western Continent. Next came Combat Aviator Badge, Scout Aviator Badge, Naval Aviation Duties, and Bomber Specialist. Followed by Drop Hawk Medal, Falcon Pin, and Flaming Warbird. Toward the bottom were the Foreign Awards: Luroy Liberation Medallion and Bravery Award of the Aviation Wings. Then finally the Airship Pins for the
Inventionis (engraved)
, Zephyr, and
Warborne. Mixed in with these came the real outliers: two Crimson Wings and an Airtrooper Stripe.
Dawson felt a bit embarrassed at all the colors. The brass decided who received what commendations. He honestly felt he did not earn a few of these. He did not, for example, consider his Bomber Specialist, Naval Aviation Duties, and Drop Hawk Medal (earned in Luroy) legitimate. Those three activities were just part of the job. Still he had to wear them to be regulation.
He retrieved Jinx and cradled her on his arm. He knew the best way to remove cat (and cat hair) from cloth. "This is going to be an interesting deployment. Mark my words." This time though he said as much with a smile.
Then something caught his eye. Something on Mavis' blues. He looked up at her, "Expert Pyrotechnician? Damage Control?"
