by Sharon Shinn
“No, this is fine,” Rafe answered. “I mean—I suppose I can afford it.”
“Rent is taken out of your wages,” Darby told him.
“Then this is perfect.”
• • •
Morning arrived far more quickly than Rafe could believe. He was up and dressed and back at the factory just as sunrise was painting the eastern sky a vibrant pink. Ignoring Kayle’s fashion critique, he’d spent part of the evening shopping for necessities, so he was wearing fresh if utilitarian clothing, and he’d made a hearty meal before leaving his room. He couldn’t shake the notion that Kayle never bothered with food, and he figured he might need to fortify himself for the day ahead.
As before, the elay prime took the wheel and careened through the city streets, though there were fewer potential collisions at this early hour. “Did you read the reports I gave you?” Kayle demanded.
“Most of them.”
“Tell me what you learned.”
“You mean what you’ve learned?” Rafe said with a grin. “You’ve got to make the aeromotives lighter and get them to go faster if you want to travel any distance. So you’re trying to find thinner, smoother material that’s still strong enough to hold together under stress, and you want a more powerful fuel than the compressed gas you’re currently using. You’ve figured out how to steer—mostly—but the aeromotives aren’t nearly as maneuverable as the smoker cars.”
“We need to gain more height and deliver more fuel without adding more weight,” Kayle said. He glanced over at Rafe. “You’re a slim man. That’s good. One of our pilots was too big. Weighed well over two hundred pounds.”
“What happened to him?”
“Crashed,” Kayle said. “Died.”
Rafe looked at his stomach. “I’m beginning to regret breakfast.”
Kayle let loose a crack of laughter. “You won’t be the one in the aeromotive today. But when you are—something to think about.”
They arrived at the factory to find close to fifty people milling around in the open space before the movable door. Rafe thought that maybe half of them were engaged in essential tasks such as carrying fuel canisters and assorted cables; the others were there, brimming with excitement and curiosity, merely to watch. A whole team was vigorously sweeping debris from the roadway where the machine would gather speed before lifting into the sky. Kayle actually wrenched the elaymotive off the road and drove across the rocky ground for the final half mile, presumably so his wheels didn’t introduce any foreign matter to the smooth surface. He was an even worse driver on the open ground.
Kayle had barely halted the elaymotive before he jumped out and began issuing commands. Rafe climbed out more slowly, then just stood there and watched the activity. The morning sun, still well below its zenith, shone eerily bright through an utterly cloudless sky; there wasn’t a hint of wind. A surreal, suspended stillness hung over the scene, as if—despite the purposeful commotion—the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something glorious or catastrophic to unfold under that intense sun.
It was another hour before anything interesting happened, and Rafe had settled himself on the ground to wait, leaning his back against one of the big spoked wheels of the elaymotive. But he scrambled to his feet when the great mobile doors were shoved open even wider and metallic glints in the interior darkness hinted that something very large was on the move. At first it seemed like nothing more than lights flickering across a shadowy liquid surface, and then the shadows took shape—a lean, cylindrical body with impossibly long, outstretched arms—before giving way to solid silver.
The aeromotive had been guided out of its housing.
It was being moved into place by a dozen workers, some tugging on cables attached to its wings and struts, others pushing it from behind. Rafe supposed Kayle didn’t want to waste an ounce of fuel merely positioning it for takeoff. Its forward progress was uneven and accompanied by much shouting, which grew even more feverish when the aeromotive began wobbling toward the border of the roadway. Rafe imagined it wasn’t easy to haul that creature back to the level surface once its wheels had dropped into soft soil. But a few more shouts, a lot more curses, and it was back on course, slowly rolling forward until it was a good thirty yards away from the building.
Rafe’s attention was drawn to a man who strolled alongside the craft, his arm lifted just enough so his fingers could brush the sleek exterior skin. He wasn’t helping with the manual labor, oh no. He was laying claim to the aeromotive with all a lover’s possessiveness. He was overdressed for the intensifying heat of the day, in close-fitting heavyweight trousers and overtunic, sturdy boots and gloves; he had wound a long strip of light-colored fabric around his head and face, so that only his eyes and mouth were visible.
This was the pilot, Rafe had to believe, the man who would climb into that tiny driver’s box and feel the great beast roar to life under his hands. He was dressed to protect himself against the wind of rapid passage and maybe against the hard burn of a disastrous landing, but he didn’t look particularly worried. It was impossible to see his expression, of course, but there was something jaunty, almost arrogant, about the set of his shoulders, the lift of his head. Someone said something to him and he laughed. From the swaddling of silk, his eyes peered eagerly around, noting the angle of the sun, gauging the size of the crowd gathered to see him off. Something about his self-confidence, his swagger, made Rafe doubt he was elay, as you might expect an aeromotive pilot to be. No, this was a sweela man, Rafe would bet his life on it, a soul of reckless brilliance and limitless imagination. He believed he could fly, and so he very probably would.
Rafe had never in his life been so jealous of another man.
Someone called another order, and everyone stopped at once. The aeromotive shuddered to a halt, perfectly positioned in the center of the roadway, facing straight south, toward the sea. There was another flurry of motion as workers finalized some last-minute preparation, and then a man’s voice sang out, “All clear! Ready to board!”
The pilot took a step away from the machine and raised both arms in the air, and the whole crowd cheered. Kayle broke free from a knot of his employees to offer the pilot a handshake and perhaps some final advice, and again the pilot laughed. One of the workers hurried over to cup his hands and boost the pilot into the driver’s box. Only moments after he had settled in place, Rafe heard a low rumble, much louder than that of an elaymotive, and saw the aircraft begin to tremble all over. It was almost as if the inert metal construct had suddenly come to life.
All the bystanders scattered, falling back toward the building or to either side of the roadway, to give the aeromotive plenty of room. The rumbling grew to a roar, and suddenly the machine leapt forward, gaining speed at an astonishing rate. Faster, faster, and then abruptly it was airborne, a few feet off the ground and edging higher, its slim nose gradually lifting toward the sun.
Rafe felt a shout of triumph tear from his throat, but it was lost in the general cheering. Maybe thirty people raced after the aircraft, as if they could catch up with it, waving and calling after the pilot to speed him on his way. Everyone was staring after the diminishing silver shape; a few had their arms stretched out before them, strung with tension, as if they were helping to hold the machine in the air.
Keeping his eyes on that bright spot overhead, Rafe backed his way into the crowd, feeling the need to share the jubilation. The woman he found next to him had a severe fanatic’s face. He thought she might be one of Kayle’s elay inventors, certainly someone with more knowledge than he had.
“How long will it stay aloft?” he asked her. “How far will it go?”
Not looking at him, she shook her head. “We never know. Some craft never get off the ground. One flew halfway to Chialto and could have gone farther if it had had more fuel. One—we never found it. We don’t know where it went down.”
Rafe had read about that i
n Kayle’s reports. Everyone seemed to think the pilot had plummeted to the sea, though the wreckage had never washed ashore. “If he returns safely, how soon can the machine be ready to fly again?”
She gave him one quick, appraising sideways glance. “Why—oh. You’re Kayle’s new recruit, aren’t you?”
He couldn’t help grinning. “How did you know?”
“You have the look of a man who would like to fly.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what that might mean, and he didn’t want to ask, so they stood together in somewhat strained silence for the next twenty minutes, listening for sounds of the aeromotive returning. Someone else had sharper ears than Rafe did, though, because suddenly a man behind him shouted, “I can hear him! He’s coming back!”
As one, the crowd moved off the roadway again, even farther back, hurrying to the dubious shelter of the factory wall. Rafe imagined that if the pilot lost control as he touched down, the aeromotive could plow right through the walls of the building and turn the whole thing to a twisted smoky mess.
“How easy is it to stop one of those things?” he asked his new friend.
She pointed. “He’ll try to set down some distance away. Landing is almost as dangerous as takeoff—he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the building.”
Indeed, it soon became clear that that wasn’t going to be an issue. While the machine was still at least a mile away, it started dropping rapidly, wobbling from side to side as if the pilot was fighting desperately to keep the wings level. Even from this distance, Rafe could hear the motor cutting in and out in an erratic fashion, as if it stalled, restarted, and stalled every few seconds. Around him, he could hear the sounds of people whispering, weeping, praying. His own lips were moving in soundless encouragement. Come on come on come on. His whole body was tight with cramps, as if simply by willing it, he could keep the craft aloft.
Then three things happened at once: The flying machine lost fifty yards in one sickening drop, the crowd moaned its fear in a single wordless gasp, and a wind rushed eastward across the open land and caught the craft in its chaotic swirl. The crowd gasped again, this time in hope, because the tumultuous pillow of air somewhat eased the machine’s descent. The aeromotive made a half-spin in one direction, tipped its left wing dangerously close to the ground, righted at the last minute, and then fell to the earth. Its wild skidding motion flung it across the paved roadway, where it plunged into the rocky soil. The sound of screeching metal and collapsing struts carried with perfect clarity through the gusty air.
Even before the machine came to complete halt, everyone from the factory was racing forward, calling out questions, instructions, oaths, and prayers. Rafe ran with the others. At least a dozen of them, he noticed, were awkwardly burdened with buckets of water, the contents sloshing on their trousers as they ran. There was some possibility of fire, then, perhaps of a truly spectacular explosion. Rafe didn’t suppose a few ounces of water would be enough to contain a real conflagration.
They all kept their attention on the wreckage as they charged across the open fields, but none of them saw what they were looking for: the pilot unstrapping himself from the driver’s box and waving to reassure them that he had survived. Despite Kayle’s best efforts—for surely it had been the elay prime who whipped up that helpful blast of wind—the machine had come down hard enough to jar a man’s head almost off his spine. Or slam it into the metal edge of the box. Or leave him alive, but snap his back or break his neck. Every possibility worse than the last.
The first to reach the aeromotive was a girl who looked barely older than Steff. “He’s alive!” she shouted to the onrushing crowd. The noisy cheer almost drowned out her next words: “But he’s badly injured!”
Rafe pulled up and let the rest of the workers rush past him. He wasn’t much of a hand in a sickroom, and surely someone on Kayle’s staff was a medic. But a badly injured man couldn’t walk on his own, so maybe somebody should fetch transport. He jogged back to where Kayle had left the elaymotive on the side of the road.
He’d driven a smoker car a few times—just because the technology fascinated him, just to say he’d done it—but he was hardly adept at the job, and Kayle’s vehicle was fancier than the ones he’d rented. So it took him a couple of tries to turn the damn thing on, and he was clumsy enough at the controls that it went lurching across the countryside in an ungainly fashion. But he managed to avoid hitting anyone as he guided the elaymotive to the crash site and stood on the brakes to make it stop.
Around him, he heard a few approving murmurs: Excellent idea. Quick thinking! Yes, put Arven in the smoker car and take him back to the hangar. Rafe hopped out and said to anyone paying attention, “Someone else better drive it back, though, or he’ll get bounced right out. How is he?”
Arven was pretty beat-up, it seemed—two broken legs, a broken collarbone, and a head wound that left him woozy—but whole enough to declare with conviction that the outing had been a success. Everyone else seemed to agree.
“He may have gone ten miles!” Rafe overhead one of the designers say. “And made it back!”
“Distance, direction, maneuverability, target goal achieved,” someone else counted off. “Incredible.”
“Will you be able to salvage the aeromotive?” Rafe asked. Because now that he got a good look at it, he found it even more amazing that Arven had survived. One of the wings had snapped in half and now bent forlornly to the ground; the struts supporting all the wheels had given way, so the belly of the machine lay flat on the ground. And there was a gash across the nose of the craft, a long rip right through the metal skin. To his untrained eyes, the thing looked irreparable.
But those who had overheard him were nodding. “Oh, yes. Anything that can be manufactured can be remanufactured. We can make it skyworthy again in a few ninedays.”
“Arven won’t be ready to fly again for longer than that,” someone else objected. “So no need to rush.”
A third person joined the conversation. “But the LNR is scheduled to take off next, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, the LNR.”
“Oh, that’s the one I want to see fly,” the first man said in a reverent voice. “How long do we have to wait for Arven?”
“We need another pilot.”
“We need a dozen other pilots.”
“I’m almost ready to sign up myself just to see it in its natural element.”
Don’t bother, Rafe thought. He didn’t know what an LNR was, but he knew absolutely that he wanted to be the one to send it slicing through the air. I’m the new pilot. I’ll fly anything in your whole damned factory.
Today’s exhibition, ending with an injured pilot and a twisted carcass of metal, hadn’t done anything to change his mind. If anything, he was more excited than ever, impatient and eager to climb in the driver’s box. He had found his passion. He wanted to fly.
• • •
Becoming an aeromotive pilot involved far more than buying fancy leather flying gear and developing an egotistical attitude. It involved a certain amount of tedious physical preparation, because it required serious strength to haul on the wheels and levers that controlled the craft. “You look like you’ve got the muscle mass of some of my designers, which is to say, none at all,” Kayle informed him when Rafe questioned the necessity of the training exercises. “I admire your quick mind, but you need physical strength as well.”
It involved even more tedious study of the specifics of every craft currently sitting in the big hangar. Kayle felt his pilots should have a thorough knowledge of how each machine was constructed, what the weak points might be, so they would better understand what could go wrong when they were high in the air and had to make rapid life-and-death decisions.
The most interesting part of the prep work involved practicing how to operate an aeromotive. Kayle—who seemed to possess half the property in the port city—owned yet another l
arge building on the northern edge of town, this one a training facility. Complex ropes and pulleys hung from the ceiling and stretched from the walls, holding a replica driver’s box twenty feet above the floor. A pilot-in-training would climb into the suspended capsule and engage the gears and levers, and the box would respond, turning right, dipping lower, trembling with simulated speed. It was as close to flying as not flying could be, and the experience left Rafe even more eager to take a machine for a trial run.
“So when will you fly your first aeromotive?” Josetta asked him over dinner on firstday.
He had by this time been training for six days, and he was sore all over. His arms and abdomen hurt from the physical workouts; after dozens of hours in the replica box, hauling on stiff levers, his hands were rough with blisters slowly turning into calluses. Even his brain hurt from trying to absorb the mathematical calculations of speed, fuel, and stress. Kayle had seemed shocked that Rafe planned to take a couple days off to recuperate.
And return to Chialto to have dinner with the princess, of course.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Kayle thinks I need to build more strength in my hands and shoulders. I think I need to practice what it feels like to lose power all of a sudden and see if there’s any way to bring the aircraft into more of a controlled crash. So the engineers at the training facility are devising ways to duplicate that sort of situation.”
Josetta looked like she was trying hard not to appear frightened. He was pleased that she made the effort—and pleased to think she was worried about his safety. “If you let me know when it’s going to be, I’ll come out and watch,” she told him.
It was hard to tell which outweighed the other, his surprise or his delight. “You would? That would be— I’d love that.”
She gave him a half-smile. “Otherwise I don’t suppose anyone would think to tell me if you’d been horribly injured in a crash, and I’d just be left to wonder what happened to you when you stopped showing up on firstdays.”
