Eyes of the Calculor (61 page)

Samondel banked, looking for a target. A larger group was wheeling about a quarter mile away. Two sailwings began diving at the wingfield, but two more red wedges were ascending on pillars of smoke and flame. There was a head-on pass, then a wedge and sailwing collided. The other sailwing slammed into the wingfield,

while the surviving rocketwing continued on upward. Samondel began a long turn to come at her targets out of the sun.

The Avianese had bypassed the limitation of sophisticated compression technology, they had instead bolted simple rockets onto high-speed gliders. They could only ascend for a short time, but during that time they were lords of the air.

A Mounthaven sailwing banked into an angled convergent pass with the other Avianese rocketwing, and in spite of fifteen hours in the air, the enemy flyer calmly fired a long burst into the Avianese aircraft. The rocketwing seemed unaffected. Incredibly, the enemy numbers had been halved, but the survivors were not to be taken lightly. Samondel dived out of the sun at a knot of three sailwings that were forming up to dive on the wingfleld, but her attack was cut off by a fourth making a very accomplished head-on attack. The number was 01: it had to be Bronlar or Serjon. A kitewing trailing smoke swirled past her, then bullets thudded harmlessly through her gunwing's fabric and empty wingtanks. She rolled and dived, saw a parachute with Avianese markings. Another pass from sailwing 02, a sensible, considered pass. Bronlar

Samondel did not see the next pillar of smoke and flames erupt on the ascent strip, nor did she see the red rocketwing streaking into the air on a trail of smoke. It banked slightly, climbing unbelievably fast, then the smoky flames ended and the wedge began to slow. Two stubby, dark things fell away. A new streamer of smoke appeared and another wedge could be seen climbing up from Launceston Wingfleld. The three sailwings held together, preparing for a head-on pass, then at a combined speed of nearly four hundred miles per hour an Avianese rocket interceptor collided with the middle sailwing. The other two broke away, but now another rocket was climbing and shooting, and this time its target began to trail smoke, then it stalled.

Two more streaks of flame and smoke lanced out along the ascent strip, but at no more than five hundred feet the trailing rocket lost a wing. Wrenched around under full power, it disintegrated, but somehow a parachute appeared amid the descending wreckage. A Monthaven sailwing blundered into the path of the wreckage and a

tumbling fragment of wing smashed all three propellers. Higher up, a sailwing pursued a descending, unpowered rocketwing, only to be cut down by his wingman on his last solid fuel rocket.

Samondel had seen none of this, she was in a chasing circle, with sailwings 01 and 02 bracketing her. She could turn more tightly, but her engine was becoming sluggish and the heat gauge was off the scale. The triwing slewed through a stream of fire and rolled away to dive out of the circle. Sailwing 02 rolled out to pursue, but Samondel's gun wing continued to roll a moment longer, then dropped after the sailwing. The huge, shallow V shape and pusher propellers of sailwing rose up through her reaction guns' sights and she pressed the firing key. Lines of bullets walked across the starboard wing to the compression engines, then off into empty air.

Samondel plummeted past. The other sailwing slashed at her with his reaction guns, then swerved to avoid the stricken sailwing. They broke off in different directions, Samondel came around more sharply because of her lighter weight and three wings, and she fired at the descending 02 again. Suddenly shots tore up out of her instrument panel and past her head, oil splashed over her face and goggles. Blinded, she rubbed at them with her free hand, shots thudded against wood, fabric, and wing tanks, Samondel rolled and tried to dive vertically with no more than a vague idea of whether she was at a safe height, pulled down her goggles, and saw something red loom up in front of her with twin reaction guns flashing. It shot past her, blanketing her in smoke, then Samondel was trying to pull out of her dive and trees were before her, individual branches distinctly visible. She was down among the treetops before she had leveled out, and as she climbed again she saw sailwing 01 with one compression engine dead and a red rocket wing with R5 painted on it dropping unpowered above it. Another burst of reaction gun fire hit something within the sailwing's structure, for the port wing buckled and tore away. The sailwing was in a wild, gyrating fall when a parachute streamed out but tangled in the wreckage, then it hit the trees, not far from the wingfield's perimeter.

I he super-regal had been inspected and all crewmen declared dead, but then, this was a battle, and people tend to work in haste. Someone had been in haste when feeling for a pulse at the neck of the wing-captain of the super-regal Moonwing. No controls had been disabled, because nobody knew any functions, and everyone was fearful of traps that would set off hidden firebombs.

Suddenly the entire bank of engines were throttled up and the Moonwing began to roll away toward a dispersal track. Fire from dozens of guns raked the body of the super-regal, but not the engines. Every aviad warrior had been forced to recite over and over that engines were more precious than gold, and that engines were not to be targeted under any circumstances. With compression spirit streaming from bullet-riddled tanks, the Moonwing gained speed, but two aviads sprinted after it and leaped for the open ramp at the rear. The super-regal roared on at full throttle as the aviads clambered toward the cockpit. One stopped, his reaction gun at the ready to cover the other as he flung the internal cockpit hatch open.

"It's empty, the thing started by itself!"

"Wrong," said the wingcaptain as he opened fire from a storage locker.

Both aviads went down, and the wingcaptain scrambled through the cockpit hatch and grasped for the controls with blood-slick hands. The super-regal rotated while still on the dispersal track, was airborne as it crossed the ascent strip, snagged a treetop with one of its wheels, then slowly leveled out and began a gentle bank to come around on a heading north.

The wingcaptain expected the sound of more bullets thudding through fabric and splintering wood at any moment, but there was nothing but the drone of the compression engines. Through sheer luck the rocketwings were all gliding back to the wingfield, their charges spent. Some flyers saw the Moonwing escaping, but assumed that Samondel's gunwing could catch it. Samondel's gunwing had experienced a massive bearing failure, however, and was struggling to maintain even a sixth of normal power. It was left to two little kitewings to take up the chase, but even the lumbering super-regal had a twenty-miles-per-hour edge over their maximum speed. Re-

alizing that they could do nothing but lose ground, the two Avianese flyers opened fire with their reaction guns at a range of half a mile. At that distance even a lucky shot was out of the question, and once their guns were empty, they both turned back for Launceston.

The Moonwing reached the open sea, still heading north. The wingcaptain locked the controls and pulled open a medical kit. He had three wounds to his legs and one to the lower abdomen. All that he could do was wrap bandages over the bloody rents in his trousers and flight jacket to slow the bleeding. Next he began to check the condition of the super-regal. There was fuel left for seven hours, but the levels in two tanks were dropping even as he read the gauges. He pulled down on levers, diverting compression spirit so that the leaking tanks were used first.

Nobody was pursuing, he had somehow escaped amid the confusion. If they shot him down now, the super-regal was lost to the Avianese, and even though he had barely enough fuel to fly a quarter of the way back to Lake Taupo, there was a chance that he might find one last way to hurt the enemies that had destroyed the rest of the attack flock. He changed course to several points to the west of north, then locked the controls again and washed down a near-overdose of stimulants. He switched back to the only undamaged tank, noting that three hours of compression spirit remained.

"That's enough to pluck and gut you featherhead bastards," he gasped. "All I need now is three hours of blood."

Jamondel's compression engine was laboring even to maintain level flight as she approached the wingfield. She counted nine pillars of smoke nearby, and there were fires burning amid the buildings near the super-regals. All four were intact, in fact most of their engines were still idling. Crowds of aviads swarmed over the wingfield, dragging the rocket wings off the ascent strip as soon as they had come to rest. Her engine missed, caught again, then evened out into a shuddering idle as she enriched the mixture and dropped to approach the ascent strip.

Once on the ground Samondel's body automatically attended to all that was needed to be done. The dying compression engine dragged the gunwing onto the dispersal path, then Samondel threw the cutoff lever. Nothing happened. She flicked it again, then again. Finally the engine died of its own accord and ground crews ran up to drag it clear. Covered in oil and soot but unharmed, Samondel climbed to the ground, then dropped to her knees to wait for everything to stop spinning.

"Are you all right, Frelle?" asked a medician carrying a white bag with red crosses painted on the sides.

"Death was so near, I felt the feathers of her wings brushing against me," she said in Bartolican.

"Your pardon?"

"Not hurt, help others."

Samondel glanced at her watch as he hurried off. Just fourteen minutes had passed since the smoke rocket had been launched but now Rl, R2, R3, and R7 were lying idle beside the ascent strip. The flyers of the incredible rocketwings were gathering, still wearing their numbered black jackets as they removed their leather balaclavas. Samondel shakily got to her feet and approached the loudly babbling flyers.

"Look at that! Peed my pants."

"Me too."

"I didn't."

"You're too stupid to be frightened."

"Elcrin got a synthetic funeral."

"Took one with him."

"That was safer than training. Remember that day we lost three?"

"Told you nobody'd give us a welcome."

"And the crowd roared!" shouted the flyer with Rl on his jacket.

"Roar!" they shouted together.

"And the crowd cheered!"

"Cheer!"

"And the crowd was bitterly disappointed!"

"Ah, shyte!"

Flyers, flyers like her, thought Samondel. Boys, half-hysterical with relief and surprise at still being alive, and even being victorious. Each had colors from aviad girls on his right arm. Samondel stroked Martyne's black band on her own arm, then hailed them.

"Gentlefolk, good to see you having colors," she said, slapping R3 on the back, then draping her arms over the shoulders of flyers R7 and R3.

"Hie, it's royalty," said R2, doing an exaggeratedly low bow that turned into a somersault.

"Remember, bad luck to kiss a girl of colors before reporting to the adjunct," she warned.

"Get any, Princess?" asked Rl.

"Got three, but R5 stitched up last one before I am turning."

"No consideration!" cried R3.

"Now we go to pennant pole, tell adjunct kills and losses. Big tradition."

"Wait, here comes Shadowmouse in R5."

"What of escaped super-regal? Someone chasing, yes?"

"No, but fuel was pissing out of the wing tanks."

"Both wings?"

"Port and starboard, Frelle."

"Then is not enough to reach Taupo. That wing is lost."

Through the drifting clouds and swirling streamers of smoke came the R5, red and sleek, unpowered yet faster than most Mount-haven gunwings in level flight. Its single skid slammed into the grass; it bounced, tipped, straightened, and bounced again before sliding to a stop in the middle of the grass ascent strip. It was resting on its starboard wingtip as they ran over, followed by the handlers with a trolley and jacks.

"He's our newest," said Rl as they ran over.

They helped the handlers attach a trolley to the rocketwing and drag it clear of the ascent strip. The flyer opened the hatch in his canopy and jumped clear as they stopped.

"Fras, am owing you big favor." Samondel laughed.

Martyne removed his leather balaclava and shook out his hair.

EYES OF THE CALCULOR 499

"Think nothing of it, Frelle Airlord."

The silence between them spread to the other rocket flyers and the handlers. The two stood motionless, staring at each other.

"You are Fras Shadowmouse?" said Samondel at last.

"Yes."

"Why—you did not tell me?"

Martyne shrugged. "How?"

The rocketwing flockleader was aware that the tension in the air was extreme, but he had no idea why and even less idea of how to defuse the situation.

"Wings of my Colors, welcome to the ground you have defended," declared Samondel.

Martyne blinked, then touched the bunch of ribbons tied to his arm. Attached to Samondel's arm was a small strip of black.

"Wings of my Colors, welcome to the ground you have defended," he echoed.

She brought her right arm up, bending it and draping Martyne's black band over her forearm before touching her lips to it.

"Colors of my Wings, in your name, three victories have I won," declared Samondel.

Martyne raised his arm to kiss the bunch of ribbons draped over his forearm.

"Colors of my Wings, in your name, three victories have I won," he responded.

"Ah, you know each other?" ventured Rl.

Samondel and Martyne reached for each other, but the spell was broken by the other rocket flyers, who seized them by the arms and dragged them farther apart.

"Back, you two, back!" cried R3. "Bad luck to kiss before you report to the adjunct."

They began to walk toward the pennant pole, but Samondel and Martyne gradually dropped behind.

"Sorry I shot you," said Samondel. "Big mistake."

"Think nothing of it," replied Martyne.

"Velesti! Know not whether to kiss her or strangle her."

"Don't kiss her, you'd be poisoned."

"Hey, remind me what I'm supposed to say to that daft Frelle of mine when I see her!" Rl called back to them.

■ here were bodies scattered all around the pennant pole area, and the adjunct stood beside his tent taking statements from the five surviving kitewing flyers. Aviad guardsmen were everywhere, their reaction guns raised and their eyes alert. The flockleader hurried among them, his arm bandaged roughly.

"Frelle Airlord, are you all right?" the adjunt shouted as Samon-del approached.

"All the blood I ascend with, I bringing back," replied Samondel. "What of here?"

"We lost ninety, they lost ninety-seven. Four captured, but one will not live more than minutes. Ten sailwings destroyed for two rocketwings lost. One sailwing and four super-regals captured."

"Careful, if please. Traps, yes?"

"None, actually. The artisans have already checked the super-regals. Looks like our Mounthaven friends thought they were invincible."

The flockleader arrived and hurried Samondel away to the med-icians' tents to identify the living and dead.

"This one is from 02," said the medician, drawing back the blanket. "Your third."

Bronlar's body looked like a rag doll that had been pulled out of a fire and then fought over by two terriers. Her neck was stretched and twisted, and the reek of burned hair hung on Samondel's nostrils as she looked down.

"Warden Bronlar Jemarial, Yarronese. Was dead when found?"

"Never saw anyone in that condition and still alive," replied the aviad medician.

Serjon was alive, with his clothing torn and his face scratched, but incredibly he had no other injuries that she could see. His hands were bound and his feet hobbled.

"So, you beat Bronlar," Serjon croaked. "That will make you famous forever."

"She was just my ninth victory," replied SamondeL "Just as you are some rocket flyer's victory."

"Filthy featherhead tricks—and you are a traitor to Mount-haven."

"Traitor? You betray me, Mounthaven, and Bronlar, then you talk about traitors!"

"You never saw my mother and sisters. Dead . . . raped . . . cold."

"And what makes up for that? How many deaths? I'll tell you. All the aviads that exist, all the males, females, the children, the infants, but there is more, Serjon Warden Killer, because dozens of human Bartolicans were at work alongside one aviad leader. How many Bartolicans have you killed, how many Bartolican deaths do you need? You wanted revenge, so you became the enemy, calling down apocalypse on everyone. What were you doing in bed with me on those nights in Condelor and Rochester? Pretending to rape all Bartolican women?"

"Featherhead lover! I rode you, like Yarron rode Bartolica."

Samondel could scarcely stop herself from dashing out of the tent, but she stood her ground as tears ran down her cheeks.

"In sheer hatred, Serjon, I am outgunned and outclassed. You are a pig, and I will not roll in the gutter to fight you."

"You already rolled with me." Serjon began to laugh.

"Yet even the mighty Serjon Feydamor was outgunned and outclassed today."

"Featherhead shytehead."

Samondel's mind formed a gunsight around Serjon's head as she regarded him. He was now a thing, as Martyne had once been. Can he resist the temptation to boast? she wondered. Probably not, that's all he has left.

"So, the Council of Airlords voted to attack Avian," she said.

"That flock of sparrows?" exclaimed Serjon. "You know nothing. Yarron, Cosdora, and Dorak have the only real airlords in Mounthaven."

"And I suppose you are the venture's leader?"

"I would have fought a thousand duels for the privilege. All of us were volunteers, we were handpicked among those who had lost loved ones."

"That is all I need to know," said Samondel as she turned away.

"What do you mean?" called Serjon as she strode from the tent.

She found the mayor after a short search. He was congratulating the surviving rocket flyers, one of whom was Martyne. The situation was less than ideal, but Samondel knew that her hatred was like the rocketwings. It would only be deadly for a very short time, and there was still one enemy in the air.

"Have questioned Feydamor," interjected Samondel. "All this, not from Council of Airlords' orders. Terrorist attack, being."

"Are you sure?" asked the mayor. "They must have had a lot of resources behind them."

"Council resources, misused."

"Frelle Leover, ah, Airlord, are you aware of what you are saying?"

"Yes. And as member of the Council of Airlords, I turn them over to your authority. You know what that means."

"Yes, yes," he replied slowly. "Very well, then."

The mayor hurried away, and soon aviad musketeers began moving people about and clearing a space beside the abandonstone wall of the Technical Institute. Samondel stood close to Martyne, her hands clasped tightly together. Aviad artisans knocked three short poles into the soil with mallets. The three surviving Mounthaven prisoners were led out of their separate tents, still bound and hobbled. They were tied to the poles.

Two dozen musketeers now marched up in good order and formed into two rows, one standing and the other kneeling. By now the prisoners had realized what was happening.

"Stop! Prisoners of war!" shouted Serjon.

The mayor raised his hand. Silence descended.

"Having determined through the duly appointed envoy of the Mounthaven Council of Airlords that the attack on this city was an act of terrorism, and thus wholly outside the authority of the Council, it is my melancholy duty to carry out the sentence prescribed for acts of terrorism under both Mounthaven and Avianese law."

"No, am warden!" shouted Serjon.

"Make ready," ordered the mayor.

"This is terrorism, Mounthaven will never forgive or forget you filthy mice," cried Serjon, now in Yarronese.

"Take aim."

"Didn't kill enough of you featherhead bastards. Bronlar, I always loved you—"

"Fire."

Samondel did not move, even when the crowd had dispersed and the bodies had been cut down and dragged away for burial. Martyne stood beside her, not moving either.

"Martyne," said Samondel. "I could have saved him. Terrorism sanctioned by state, maybe act of war. No precedent here."

"Australican humans have run a genocide against aviads for millennia," replied Martyne. "I had no vocation to Balesha, Samondel. When I was discovered to be an aviad I was sent there to hide from lynch mobs. Do you think I hate humans after all that?"

"Hoping not."

"Serjon and the others were executed under Avianese law. To punish our own war criminals for what was done in America, we drafted laws specifying the death penalty for voluntary acts of terrorism, whether in the name of states, secret groups, or individuals. As we punished our own people, so did we punish yours. The issue is closed."

"Martyne, am frightened. Frightened of being as Bronlar or Serjon. Were twisted, full of hate. All their compassion, just act."

"Were Serjon or Bronlar frightened of being like that?"

"Is obvious. Not so."

"Velesti was like them, but slowly she learned to fear what she was. That was when I began to lead her back from the edge. If you fear it too, you could never be anything like Bronlar and Serjon. They were proud of what they were and what they were trying to do today. That was real evil."

"Wise words," conceded Samondel with a sniffle. "Must think on them."

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Uramoren stood before the assembled masses that were the Libris Calculous components, his arms folded firmly behind his back. To his right was the system herald, to his left the system controller, and behind them all were three dozen armed Tiger Dragons.

"I wish to announce that experiments conducted by the Dragon Librarian Service under contract to the experimental research monastery of St. Roger have resulted in the development of a water-powered calculor," he began.

A rustle of whispers greeted the words.

"Obviously this will not be subject to the same afflictions as unshielded electrical-essence calculors, and will need only a staff of regulators to maintain and operate it. Of all those in Rochester, I thought you components should be the first to know. Your work here has held the Commonwealth together during dark and dangerous times, and is appreciated. The date of your release from service has not yet been determined, that will depend upon how long it takes to build a water calculor the size of Dolorian Hall, and at present only a small model is in operation. Please be patient and work hard. Soon you will be released, honored, and compensated. You are dismissed."

Dramoren was given three cheers quite spontaneously as he walked from the calculor hall, and the voices of the jubilant components were in his ears as he was met by Lengina in a courtyard outside.

"So, they took the news well," she observed.

"Oddly enough, yes."

"A pact with the Avianese will be more difficult to announce. The Reformed Gentheists will denounce it as a lie that pretends to link the destinies of our two species."

"But our destinies are linked."

"Truth, like childbirth, provides a lot of pain along with its blessings."

"The Avianese probably knew about this for decades. That is

why they are so obsessed about breeding and eugenics, and why they work so hard to transport newly discovered aviad children to Tasmania Island."

"But this is all wrong, we should live in peace!" said Lengina, beating the air with her fists. "Our species are interlocked, just like men and women."

"Are you trying to tell me that men and women live in peace?" Dramoren sighed.

"Men and women display a lot more harmony than humans and aviads just now. Perhaps it is time that we take over the research of our learned monks and use the whole of the Commonwealth as a workshop for developing ways to coexist."

Launceston, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Damondel insisted that Serjon and Bronlar be buried together when the first of the graves were dug in the early afternoon. The surviving long-range sailwing turned out to merely have a fuel blockage in one atomizer, and Samondel was able to take it up for a test flight. After that she had another meeting with the wingfield adjunct.

"I need to tell of this, all in Mounthaven," she said. "Else they will try again. I am saying, terror flock wiped out by Avianese, never had a chance. Mighty warriors, are Avianese, with invincible wings. Ours were best, best they have sent. Total patriots. Suffered greatly from aviads. Best flyers, finest wings, fought here. Still defeated."

"You said you wanted to use the captured sailwing," said the adjunct.

"Needing to reach wingfield, at distance. Having severe words for Lake Taupo wingfield adjunct. Then Mounthaven."

"In the captured sailwing?"