“Good show!” Percival broke radio silence. “That’s one Flying Pencil erased!”
Melliagraunce tried to smile, but his helmet was drenched with sweat. The kill had been too easy.
He craned his neck to the right. Percival took on a staffel of Heinkels, directing them back to France.
“Hey!” Melliagraunce had seen something else: a 109’s yellow nose. “Percival—Percy—your tail!”
Percival looked back, featureless, headgear acting as helm.
The 109 played Mordred, using cannon instead of a spear.
“DON’T DIVE!” Melliagraunce screamed, a phantom smell—his own burnt flesh—nearly making him sick.
Too late. Melliagraunce trailed both planes down, knowing which had the advantage. He gave the German a burst, but smoke clouded his windshield; when it cleared, he saw Percival’s Spit, a meteor shower o
