"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 as
sembled 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?"
"How else?"
"But it is needed here."
"I have given four super-regals, to you."
"But we are desperate for wings."
"Teaching super-regals flying, I can. Without lessons, how many are crashing, to learn?"
I he adjunct conveyed Samondel's request to both the overhand and mayor. They did not take long to decide that they were of the same mind on the subject.
"The sailwing is worth its weight in diamonds to Avian," the overhand decided. "She wants to use it to take on perhaps dozens of her own warriors, with no more than a reaction pistol and her own authority. After that, she wants to fly on to North America."
"I agree, we might as well light a fire under the sailwing and stand back to watch, for all the good it will do," agreed the mayor.
"Yet I would point out one minor but important detail," said the adjunct. "Airlord Samondel alone has had experience with flying both advanced sailwings and the super-regals. Speaking as a flyer, I would dearly prefer a short training course from a qualified instructor rather than an extremely short course in self-instruction."
"This is true," said the overhand, "but Frelle Samondel may prove less than cooperative."
"We shall tell her she can have the sailwing, but she must show us how to fly the super-regals first. After that, what can she do if we break our promise?"
"We must certainly keep her safely away from the wingfield once the lessons are over," said the overhand. "Fras Adjunct, have the wings especially well guarded tonight, and tell all flyers that she must not approach any wing while alone."
IVIartyne was no longer required for any of the hearings. As the sun was setting he made his way to his accommodation hut, lit a fire, and removed his boots. He took off his shirt, contemplating the slight chill on his skin from the midautumn air. I am alive to feel the chill, he thought, stooping over and rubbing his hands before the flames in his stone grate. His left arm was still stiff and tender, and
blood had seeped and dried from a torn stitch in the wound in his chest, but he could raise his hand to his face, he could see his fingers. Serjon certainly could not.
Everything manufactured was in short supply in Launceston, and Martyne had arrived in just the clothes he was wearing. Following his nightly ritual, he removed his socks and underclothes, washed them in a bowl of rainwater, then hung them to dry by the fire. Lastly he washed himself, then hunched shivering beside the fire to dry. There was unlimited firewood and water, but cloth for underclothes was unobtainable. The cloth that did not go into aircraft fabric went to clothe children. Even his blankets were roughweave dry grass; they were scratchy, but nevertheless warm. Presently he was lying on his back, his eyes closed and his arm draped over his face, trying to think of nothing, but thoughts kept slipping past his guard.
Red Death, even the other Avianese flyers were now calling Sa-mondel that. At last Martyne began to descend into a haze of dark, contented stillness, more through sheer exhaustion than his skills with meditation and relaxation control, but time and again Samon-del's image took his hands, drew him close, and pressed her lips against his.
"Martyne," she would say as she drew back a little.
He could say nothing, but he smiled.
"Martyne, I love you."
Still he could only smile, and now she looked sad. Can't say anything, she might get the wrong idea, some imbecile voice kept warning him. What wrong idea? That he loved her, that he desired her, that he wanted to flout all aviad conventions and marry her? Still he could not reply. Yes he loved her, but she might think he desired her as a great and powerful noble from the distant, glittering, magnificent mayorates and cities of North America. Samondel began to fade.
"Martyne?"
Yet again the voice dragged Martyne back from the balmy blackness.
"Yes?" he slurred, on the verge of sinking again.
"Room for me, yes?"
Martyne removed his arm from his eyes—and found himself looking up at the unbuttoned flight jacket, liner, blouse, and bare breasts of Highland Bartolica's monarch.
"There is always room for you," tumbled unbidden from his lips.
Samondel stripped in the dim light from the grate's coals, never once taking her eyes from Martyne.
"Have seen your chest at training," she said as she sat naked on the edge of his narrow slat-mortice bunk. "Longing for to show you mine."
"We shall be packed very close," said Martyne, lifting the woven grass blanket for her.
"Whole idea," she replied, drawing the blanket back over and settling carefully on top of him. "Not hurting scar, I hope?"
"Those are unlikely to hurt anyone," replied Martyne, hugging her down against him, "but is this a safe thing
for you to do?"
She looked down into his eyes and caressed his hair.
"Chivalrous to the end," she purred admiringly. "Is time of the safe moon, for me. Is need for nothing. For me, is new thing."
IVIartyne was still drowsy in the early morning as Samondel lay with a leg across him, looking at the scar that her bullet had torn across his chest.
"Can never be apologizing enough," she said, running her fingers delicately along the scar below his pectorals.
"Once is sufficient."
"With you, have dispensed with, ah, devices. Serjon, to use, always had to."
"Leave him alone, he's dead."
"Had to give you what he never had. Even if myself not in the time of safe moon, would do all again. Understand?"
"Time of the safe moon, what a charming and beautiful expression," said Martyne, reaching up to caress her face. "And I am truly flattered."
"Today I train Avianese to fly super-regals. They will be a great help for refugees."
"Will you stay here?"
"Wish to stay with you, but. . . wherever I go, always is you only. Forever. Love you only, never have another."
"But I see nothing that could come between us."
Samondel frowned and shook her head.
"Must go home, shout 'Attack on Launceston' from tops of palace towers. Guilty airlords deny everything, they will, but not possible they can make new conspiracy, if revealed. All others then watching. Closely."
A pang of sorrow burned through Martyne as the implications of her words unfolded.
"Would you really leave me for that?"
"Are preferring a new war with Mounthaven, yes?"
"No, but—"
"Need to save your people, enough damage and suffering, has been. Am airlord. Airlord means sacrifice for greater good."
Martyne shivered and drew her close. "All of us flyers have been told not to let you near a wing while alone, especially after the training is over. You must realize what that means. Those in charge need you, but they want to keep every wing they can get."
"They agreed, letting me have sailwing."
"Do you believe them?"
"No, I suppose."
"We could steal the sailwing together, though, and go to Mount-haven."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 51
