Eyes of the Calculor (60 page)

"Confusing," said Frelle Eye. "What did Serjon do to betray himself?"

"After duel, came 'dozen days.' Returned early. Found Serjon, ah . . . with woman. Had met in tavern. Big giggle, big tits; think expression is 'all arse, no class.' Yes?"

Samondel's emotional involvement in the matter was all too apparent. She heard titters of mirth being stifled.

"Do go on," said the mayor.

"Found also, box of reaction guns, he had. Had him arrested, left him with guard. Guard died in bomb blast, Serjon escaped, fled to Traralgon, then here."

There was a longer and more awkward pause.

"Fras Eye, can you confirm any of that?" asked the mayor.

"Apart from Serjon passing through here on the last flight, no."

"Fras Shadowmouse, what about you?"

"No."

"Well, then—" began the mayor.

"But one more question," interjected Fras Shadowmouse. "The dozen days leaves no scope for confusion. Why did you return to Serjon early?"

"Friend lied to Serjon, said fortnight. Same friend searched room, found weapons. Same friend paid girl to seduce Serjon."

"What is your friend's name?"

"Frelle Velesti Dis—"

"She's telling the truth!" exclaimed Fras Shadowmouse. "That is our proof."

"How so?" asked the mayor.

"If you are ever unlucky enough to be helped by Velesti Disore, Fras Mayor, you will know."

There was more rustling of cloth, but nobody else had an opinion.

"Well, then, the rookery will vote," said the mayor. "The motion is to accept Frelle Leover's story. Second? Thank you, Frelle Eye. Accept? That's five. Reject? Five against, leaving the decision up to your long-suffering mayor. Fras Shadowmouse, just one more clarification. How do you know this Frelle Velesti?"

"She is my operational contact with sympathizers in the Espionage Constables."

Samondel heard the hiss of indrawn breath, followed by a gusty sigh.

"Very, well, I vote yes, the motion is carried."

Samondel felt as if she could almost float into the air with relief.

"The compression spirit and civil kitewings will be moved to safety," the mayor decreed, "as will the artisans, technical library, and any tools that cannot be easily carried. Fras Wing, what can you do against what is coming?"

"The Americans are fast, deadly, experienced, but outnumbered. We have nine armed kitewings, and three American aircraft that are still airworthy."

"Combat experience?" asked Samondel.

"Only training practice."

"Will be slashed to pieces," was Samondel's verdict. "Hide them."

"We have Skyfire, of course," added Fras Wing.

"Which may kill more of our people than Americans," replied the mayor. "Fras Gun, what can you do on the ground?"

"I can muster ninety militia with reaction carbines, and three hundred more with bolt-action carbines or flintlocks. All have seen action. The academy also has three experimental heavy reaction guns mounted on handcarts."

"Frelle Airlord, what do you think?" asked the mayor.

"On the ground, good chance. Likely that Albatross will descend peacefully, taxi to adjunct, then carbineers burst out among you. Maximum impact, wanting. In the air, suicide. Armed sailwings will

your flock, cut to pieces. Two leaders alone have twelve dozen victories. On our side, six, all mine. I volunteer, fly for you."

"Frelle, our kitewings are very different to your aircraft and you would need more hours training in the air than we have left," said Fras Wing. "Aside from that we have two sailwings and a Yarronese triwing, but the bearings and rings are worn in their compression engines."

"Starflower was Yarronese triwing. Have fought in the type."

"Hellfang was meant to be mine," interjected Fras Wing.

"Oh. Sorry. Have been presumptuous."

"But my loyalty is to Avian and my flock and you are a better flyer. Hellfang may be old and tired, but she is the fastest thing with a compression engine on this wingfield. Check her tonight with the artisans, take her up at first light, then fight in her when the enemy comes."

The meeting soon concluded, and Samondel was led out by Fras Wing. He took her part of the way to the wingfield before removing her blindfold. He turned out to be a fresh-faced young aviad with blond hair.

"My real name is Flockleader Bretallus, and I have two hundred hours in the air. Are the enemy really as dangerous as you say?"

"Worse. They are twice faster than your kitewings, and even Hellfang will be straining to catch them. Odds of ten to one, maybe a chance. Less? Do not bother."

"Then why are we bothering? I am not going to lead my men and women to certain death if the result is going to be exactly the same."

"Because of Albatross. Capture Albatross intact, then can fly dozens of aviads from the mainland every night."

A\fter checking over Hellfang and giving instructions to the artisans, Samondel was taken back to the institute's buildings. She was locked inside a small but comfortable room, with an aviad nurse staying with her.

"Should be sleeping near Hellfang"

"You were told to sleep here by the mayor, Frelle Airlord."

"Artisans, they may be needing advices."

"Then they know where to find you."

From outside came a low rumble. Thunder, thought Samondel at first, but the sound was continuous and smooth. Slowly it faded, then was cut off suddenly.

"What is that?" asked Samondel.

"A storm, perhaps, Frelle Airlord."

"The weather was clear only ten minutes ago."

"I am only a nurse. I do not know of those things."

The rumble started again, smooth and continuous, then suddenly there was a loud snap followed by a very loud explosion.

"You are attempting, for to tell me, that was thunder too?"

"No, Frelle Airlord. That was the sound of a very brave youth dying."

"Youth? Dying?"

"I can tell you little more, Frelle Airlord, because I know little. On dark, cloudy nights there are lights in the sky. Very, very fast lights, impossibly fast lights. Sometimes there are balls of fire too, and twice I have seen . . ." The nurse shuddered and hugged her folded arms against herself. "Twice I have seen pieces of bodies. Burned, mangled pieces."

Samondel tried to sleep, and occasionally the rolling thunder sounded outside. The Avianese had something that they had not talked about, some sort of flame thrower bombard, perhaps. Perhaps even something left over from millennia past. Some dangerous, unreliable, but highly effective thing that killed one's own people but killed even more of the enemy. That may have been why they were curiously cooperative about loaning Hellfang to her the next day. She tried to puzzle out what it might be, but after counting eleven peals of thunder she was none the wiser.

IfttON

TfttONS OF MICE

Launceston, Tasmania Island

It was two hours after sunrise that the tethered watch balloon's bell began clanging. Samondel had slept badly, worried about the roughly running compression engine powering Hellfang. She walked the stiffness out of her joints and drank coffee while the six aviad artisans checked the steamers that were keeping her compression engine warm. The instant she heard the bell she began running across the grass while all around her signal whistles sounded. As she reached Hellfang the compression engine was spluttering into life while signalers called directions, windspeeds, and profiles.

"Signal mirror message from the balloon," called the adjunct, hurrying along with a megaphone. "Eleven sailwings and five super-regals. Repeat, eleven sailwings and five super-regals."

Samondel's heart seemed to sink into her stomach. This was an overwhelming attack, and by vastly superior numbers and flyers. She ascended alone and then flew out lower than the tallest of the trees to circle away from the wingfield to the northeast. If she could come out of the sun, she might do some serious damage before the inevitable. Away in the distance were the super-regals, slowly circling the wingfield in preparation for landing. A smoke rocket streaked into the air, welcoming the enormous wings. The first of them descended, and was lost to Samondel's sight. From what she could tell,

it had not been a bombing run, and it had been too low to have been dropping parachutists. That either meant a rather more bold plan, or that Samondel was about to look very foolish. One of the sailwings descended with the super-regals as well.

The last super-regal descended. Ten sailwings were still in the air, but one of them was sure to contain Serjon, and he was worth a hundred. Samondel began a spiraling climb. Still no second smoke rocket from the wingfield. Was she a fool? Had Martyne been wrong? Were a lot of embarrassed Avianese officials on the ground trying to explain to the Mounthaven flockleader why he had been welcomed by a wingfield on battle alert?

The wingfield adjunct stood watching the super-regals approach, awestruck by the sheer spectacle of five of the enormous aircraft together in procession along the dispersal path. Out on the ascent strip a sailwing had landed, but the flyer had just turned the aircraft around and stopped. One of the two propellers was spinning more slowly than the other, and as he watched the flyer got out, crawled to the cowling, and opened an access hatch. There was undeniably a problem with one of the engines.

"Armik, take an artisan and two strong militiamen to help move that wing off the ascent strip,'' called the adjunct. "We can't have it there when the other sailwings start to land."

His assistant hurried away, with three other men jogging behind him. They waved to the super-regals as they passed them. The crowd around the adjunct cheered and threw eucalypt leaves into the air as the Albatross stopped. The next super-regal was in the same class as the Albatross, the third and fourth were the smaller, older models, and the fifth was some sort of hybrid. The hatchways opened and began to wind down, but the propellers continued to spin. The adjunct had his first pang of doubt. Normally the Albatross's wingcap-tain turned the engines off the moment it stopped moving, as compression spirit was priceless in this remote area.

Out on the ascent strip there was a burst of gunfire as the sail-wing flyer lost his nerve and turned on Armik and his men with a reaction pistol. They went down as one, but not before one of them managed to shoot back. The flyer jerked, staggered, then fell into the

starboard propellor. The adjunct hesitated. An accident, perhaps. A misunderstanding. His finger trembled on the flintlock lever that would fire the smoke rocket. The other sailwings circled lazily at about a thousand feet. One of the wingcaptains waved to the crowd from his cockpit, but the compression engines continued to idle.

Carbineers with reaction carbines bounded down the ramps of each super-regal at some signal unseen by the adjunct, opening fire as they ran. The adjunct blew his whistle and triggered the smoke rocket together. Three carts disguised as floats draped with leaves, vines, and ribbons transformed suddenly into heavy reaction gun carriages, as the gunners opened fire on the cockpits of the super-regals. The wingcaptains and navigators were riddled within moments through the fabric of the aircraft. The cheering crowd abruptly dropped into three lines, lying, kneeling, and standing, and three volleys slashed into the carbineers who were already charging them. Ninety elite Mounthaven carbineers, most of them from royal guard squads, fell, staggered, or dashed onward while firing. The murderous fusillade continued for no more than twenty seconds before the survivors of the two groups merged. Smaller squads of aviads skirted the fighting and dashed up the hatch ramps of the super-regals with their reaction carbines at the ready.

By the time the smoke rocket was in the air Samondel was with the sun at her back and still climbing. Her flock was also close enough to be noticed by the approaching sailwing flyers. The enemy wings had drop tanks, and were painted sky blue beneath and red on top. Hard to see against the sky, easy to see from above if they crashed. There were no other markings apart from numbers from 01 to 11. No heraldic crests, no serial numbers, no names, no decorations. Some had three engines, some had two. Samondel closed as pairs began forming up to cover each other.

"That's not the way to greet your welcoming party," she whispered.

Her own triwing was still painted in Yarronese camouflage, but had the Avianese serial number AX-09, red flames, and a pair of fangs painted on the engine's cowling. It also had a more recently painted symbol on the side: a starflower.

The original Starflower was probably still at the palace wingfield in her tiny domain of Highland Bartolica, but that did not matter. There was a message to be conveyed here, and if anyone was feeling nervous, they might well see the starflower, assume the worst and—

Panic. The leading sailwing rolled into a dive, belatedly shedding its drop tanks. Samondel opened her throttle and began a turn that stood the gunwing on its starboard wingtip, and she came around just in time to see the trailing sailwing discard its tanks, looking for all the world as if it had just exploded. Samondel came around still on her wingtip and firing side-on. The other sailwing banked and came around. Faster. Samondel was in a stolen gunwing, serviced by amateurs who had learned by trial and error, and which was as badly worn as a carbineer's bootheel. The enemy flyers had been fifteen or more hours into the mission, but their sailwings would have been tended by guildmasters who had been flown to Lake Taupo. The sailwing smoked, trailed flames, then exploded in a gaudy fireball.

The second sailwing was pouring compression spirit from its wing tanks as she turned to chase it, and it banked away and into a dive. He was trying to lose weight, but already her bullets were among the blades of its propellers. A propellor shattered, the flyer panicked, flung open the hatch, and jumped at no more than three hundred feet. His parachute was still in the process of opening when he hit the trees. Samondel had already turned away.

Smoke suddenly billowed out along the ascent strip, like a rolling explosion. A smokescreen rocket, thought Samondel, but then she saw that the thing was wedge-shaped, red, as big as a kitewing and climbing almost as fast as her gunwing could dive. It closed with a sailwing, the sailwing began to trail smoke, then rocketwing rolled into a dive. The rockets on the red, wedge-shaped wing died and fell away, but another red wing was ascending by now.