When We Have Wings

by Claire Corbett

  I’d promised Peri I’d investigate what had happened to Luisa but when I searched the databases I had access to I didn’t find any information on her. I couldn’t blame Henryk for his unenthusiastic response. Cam, though, might want to know if Little Angels was up to no good; after all, her department gave the agency the accreditation that allowed it to operate.

  ‘Sorry to ring you at home, Cam,’ I began.

  She was silent as I told her about finding Peri.

  ‘Peri mentioned a friend, Luisa Perros, who was a nanny too. I have a strong suspicion she must have been supplied by Little Angels as well. We need to know if there are other girls besides Peri who’ve been in foster care and ended up with Little Angels.’

  ‘No, Zeke, absolutely not,’ said Cam. ‘No fishing expeditions. If you get names from Little Angels then maybe I can work backwards, but I can’t go checking files just in case. That would bring on way too much heat.’

  Too much heat? I thought as Cam hung up. Good thing I didn’t mention Perros was dead.

  I turned back to the desk slick. I certainly was wearing out my welcome with my former colleagues. Janeane Shaw, sister of subject’s foster carer, I dictated. Slight build, one hundred and seventy centimetres. Most people in my line of work failed, I knew, and they failed because they couldn’t provide good reports to their clients. A talent for crafting reports was not why people got into this business. But it was crucial: you had to be in charge of the story. If you couldn’t make sense of it or lost control of it then you were finished.

  I stretched, threw away the empty beer bottle, and sat down again to redo the all-important summary paragraph. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, something I needed to look at again. I reread my interim report twice, a masterful blend of clarity, reassurance and lying by omission, even if I did say so myself. I said nothing of Peri’s motives nor of her intention to seek legal advice. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

  I flicked through my case file. There, the Little Angels catalogue. That’s what I needed to look at. I paged through it. Luisa wasn’t in it but that didn’t mean anything. The catalogue only covered a six-month period. Still, it could be useful. I sent the information to Cam at home. She was already annoyed with me, might as well push things a bit further.

  I downloaded the photo of Peri and Hugo, attached it to my report, sent it to Chesshyre, refilled Frisk’s water bowl, and went to check on Thomas.

  In the doorway of Tom’s bedroom, I listened to his breathing in the semi-dark. What does the future hold for you? Thomas lay facing the wall. I stared at his thin back, marbles of his spine, shoulder blades so sharp they looked like they’d pierce his skin. There was where the wings would go, softening the boniness of his little boy body. My little boy, sweep of shining feathers down his back. What colour would they be? Lily would want something flashy. Anger rose in my throat at the thought of Thomas as a product, fashioned by us. Then I remembered the Venice. After my day in RaRA-land I’d do anything to raise him above a life like that.

  I turned away, about to go to bed myself, when I heard a noise. I froze. Scuffling in the laneway beside Ventura, loud rustling, then a deep rumble. That was Frisk—I’d let him out after dinner—and I knew that growl. He was angry. His growl rose to a high-pitched snarl I’d never heard before. That sounded like fear.

  ‘What the hell?!’

  A loud smash.

  I grabbed a light and my weapon and slipped outside, locking the door behind me. Frisk was roaring so loudly now my ears hurt.

  A huge dark shape shot past, knocking me to the ground. Winded, I scrambled to my feet, the churr of air through giant pinion feathers beating in my ears. The biggest flier I’d ever seen was taking off in front of me. The wash of air from his wings almost knocked me over again. I shone the light up. A mask covered his face; over his nose, a metal beak glinted like a knife. He wheeled over us, blotting out the sky. Then he was gone.

  Frisk crouched at my feet, snarling and hissing, showing all his teeth, eyes flashing gold discs reflecting my light. I was seeing a creature I did not know.

  ‘Well done, Frisk,’ I said. ‘You just ambushed our Raptor.’

  The next morning, Wednesday, the morning of my appointment with Dr Ruokonen, Richard dropped by early to pick up Thomas. I’d slept badly, starting awake at every noise, now that I knew my fear of being stalked by a Raptor had hardened into alarming reality.

  The first call that morning was from Chesshyre. I spoke to him as I pottered around my flat, setting out fresh water for Frisk and stacking the few dishes from Tom’s breakfast in the sink. ‘Did you get my report?’ I said. What I meant was: Call off your freak. You don’t need him now.

  It didn’t make sense; why would the Raptor be watching me instead of Peri? Was he fast enough to follow me and then go after Peri? Surely Chesshyre wouldn’t have two on the case?

  ‘Yes, I did get your report,’ said Chesshyre. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Only three days to go.’ I opened the door to let Frisk out into the front garden where he peed on each mango tree in turn. What more was there to say? I had no more news for him than when I’d drafted the report a mere nine hours earlier but I realised, with horror, that that was the last thing I could admit. All Chesshyre knew was I’d planted a tracking device and therefore must know exactly where Peri and Hugo were. Their safety depended on him continuing to believe that.

  ‘So you’re tracking her all the way?’ Chesshyre said.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  I told Chesshyre I knew from the tracking device that Peri and Hugo had begun their journey back to the City. I hoped like hell that was true. If it wasn’t, and if Chesshyre’s Raptor found that out, it was hard to say what would happen. For now, though, Chesshyre was elated. He asked me to meet him at his new tower project, Cloud City, that afternoon but would not say why.

  Frisk sauntered back into the flat with me and I sent a message to Thien, my mechanic, to book Taj in for later that morning.

  Then Sunil was onto me about the Church of the Seraphim job. Sunil asked me to meet him for coffee at one of our former hangouts, Kamchatka Joe’s, at nine am. As I pulled out of the laneway I avoided Ray’s eyes, pretending I didn’t see his alarm over the mess that was Taj. By the time I escaped from the reek of it at Thien’s garage, I was sneezing, my eyes streaming from the mould already sprouting in its humid interior. Poor Taj, he sure wasn’t shiny now. Fine for Janeane to say I needed a new car—she could talk, hers predated the Flood—but I couldn’t afford a new one, especially if I was going to help pay for Tom’s treatments.

  As I waited for the train to take me into the CBD near the government offices and Parliament House, and Kamchatka Joe’s, I wondered about the job Sunil had for me. Coffee with Sunil was never just coffee. Sunil was never off-duty and he never did anything without multi-tasking; it was a point of honour. Every coffee with a friend was also a working meeting, every game of tennis also strengthened political ties and supplied him with valuable gossip.

  As my train wound its way towards the CBD I prepared for my later meeting with Ruokonen, skimming recent articles on the treatments, searching particularly for adverse reactions and side effects. Most of the articles I found were relentlessly upbeat.

  ‘Black ops,’ were Sunil’s first words as he rose from his seat in the gloom at the back of Kamchatka Joe’s and clapped me on the shoulder. He grinned and shot his clean white cuffs out from his jacket, his handsome face alight with pleasure. ‘Good to see you, mate,’ he said as he turned away to finish the conversation he’d been having on his slick. As we sat down at the little round table and ordered, Sunil also sent a message to a crony, or, more likely, a group of them.

  Black ops. That was how Sunil dignified digging dirt on a member of the Opposition. Ordinarily a job like this was routine, excavating old material, putting two and two together, making
five. But this time Sunil wanted something more.

  Sunil sipped his coffee, leaned towards me and said, ‘My minister needs to know what this guy is really up to. We’re going to get you a job interview with him, just so you can get into his office.’

  ‘Sure, great,’ I said. Work like this paid well and kept me busy, and as Sunil shook my hand and strode away, already speaking to someone else, I was glad I had something lined up even though payment for the Chesshyre job would have kept me for a good long time.

  As I gathered my thoughts in Sunil’s wake, a light flashed on my slick. The tracking device had begun signalling; Peri and Hugo must have reached flight space that relayed surveillance. When I looked up their location on the little screen-size map, I could see they were heading south, towards the City. I set the slick down on the table, then glanced at the screen again, just to make sure. After a moment I checked it a third time. Peri was keeping her word! My relief was overwhelming; my lie to Chesshyre had become the truth. But I couldn’t exactly call and tell him the good news—as far as he was concerned, he’d heard this good news already. Now I just needed confirmation from Janeane. With luck, I’d hear from her before seeing Chesshyre this afternoon and I could reassure him once again how well the plan was working.

  I ordered myself another coffee to celebrate. Things were going well. I was rolling in work and money. Sunil and I had already sketched out a plan of attack for the black ops job. One of the trickiest jobs I’d ever had was going better than I had a right to expect. And it looked as if my son would become a flier. Though I had mixed feelings about that, at least I knew now I was doing my best by him. I’d also get Lily off my back at last. And with a bit of luck Taj would be restored to me in a day or two.

  But as I looked over my notes I realised something was odd about this new job. The dirt file I had to put together concerned a minor party MP, a member of the Seraphim. A flier as Sunil had mentioned on Sunday. Fliers were rapidly becoming my new area of expertise. In the space of a few days I’d gone from knowing little about fliers and caring less to having every waking moment consumed by them, professionally and personally.

  First things first, though. I drained the bitter, delightfully strong dregs of my coffee, paid the grand larceny of my bill, and set out for my appointment. I was due at Dr Ruokonen’s in half an hour.

  I had climbed up to what must be the biggest treehouse ever built; it spread around the bole of an oak tree and across an enormous span of branches. The oak tree itself stood between two office blocks in a green slice of meadow named Diomedea Park. The material of this treehouse was like nothing I’d ever seen before; from the outside it reflected leaves and clouds and sky, which was why I hadn’t seen it until I was standing directly under it, but sometimes it rippled like water, as if it were about to vanish. From the inside the walls were transparent. As I waited for Dr Ruokonen I peered out through the branches but then my eye was caught by a large VaporView on the inside wall cycling through images of birds and fliers in spectacular Flight, against banks of sunset cloud, plunging waterfalls, starry towers. Along the top of the screen ran the legend Aquila non captat muscas.

  I had got as far as aquila—eagle—with my schoolboy Latin when Dr Ruokonen, a wiry woman in her forties with wings like polished tin, appeared and ushered me into her office. Her hair flopped over her forehead, the same brushed metal as her wings, and her cheekbones were high and prominent. She wore an expensive-looking silky grey singlet over darker grey pants. The clothes were tailored to her body, the singlet leaving her muscled arms bare.

  We moved briskly through establishing our credentials and I was surprised when no flicker of recognition crossed her features as she glanced at my slick. Well, you learn something every day. Never did I think I’d be disappointed to meet someone who didn’t know of the Charon case.

  The outer walls of Ruokonen’s office were transparent too and from where I sat I could see for a long way, even as far as Green Square Park and back to Parliament House in glimpses along the concrete canyons formed by the other buildings. Wind rustled in the leaves and tossed the oak’s branches. No flier would feel shut in here. Looking out from inside the reach of a great tree, out over green leaves, I was floating, lofting through the air like a puff of cloud. A breaking wave of elation swelled through my body. Exaltation. God, I thought, this, this must be a pale shadow of what they feel when they fly.

  Ruokonen sat behind her desk on a strange object, a slightly springy column with a flattened bend in it like a kinked strand of wire for a seat; a chair built especially for fliers. The column continued up to the middle of Ruokonen’s upper back but there were no arms, no back, nothing to get in the way of the wings arching to the floor behind her.

  ‘It’s as if there’s nothing between us and the sky,’ I said, gesturing to the view.

  ‘Yes. I feel that part of my job, Mr Fowler, is to show some of the possibilities.’ Ruokonen leaned back slightly against the column of her chair. ‘What does it mean to be a flier? It can mean a lot of things. What it shouldn’t mean is doing things the way they’ve always been done, but with wings added on. So while this office expresses how I see the world, the way I want to work, I also use it to expand how people see they can use Flight in their lives.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘You were highly recommended.’

  Ruokonen inclined her sleek head. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need to know more about Flight,’ I said. ‘My wife, my ex-wife, wants our son to have the treatments. I shouldn’t consent till I know what’s involved.’

  Ruokonen stretched her legs out in front of her, crossed at the ankle, and picked up a pen from her desk. The pen glowed sky blue as she tapped it against her palm, its light illuminating the logo Diomedea running along its length, the same logo I’d seen on Eliseev’s building. Her wings rustled along the floor. ‘That’s wise,’ she said. ‘The difficulty is that I can give you all the relevant information but I’m not sure it’ll help you make that decision. It is, finally, an emotional one. However, you are right to want to know. What’s involved in the treatments?’ She straightened up and fixed her gaze hard on me. ‘You need to understand that a great deal is involved.’

  Ruokonen placed the luminous pen back on her desk. ‘There is an extensive amount of modification needed to enable a human being to fly. Far more than most people realise. Most of it you can’t see. The wings are the obvious part of the transformation but without all the supporting alterations they’re just fancy dress. To understand why so much has to be done, you have to understand a little about the physics of flight. Air is not a supportive medium, Mr Fowler. It is, shall we say, unforgiving of error.’ A slightly grim smile bent her lips. I guessed she’d just uttered one of her favourite wry aphorisms.

  ‘When wings were first added to human beings they were aesthetic only,’ Ruokonen continued. ‘People liked the look of them but they could not fly. Those wings were much smaller than the wings we have now. We didn’t even try to make Flight modifications at first. That’s because most people assumed an animal the size of a human being could not fly. The physics of it does not work for us. The amount of lift needed is just . . .’ She raised her shoulders in a slow-motion shrug, her palms up, as if the forces at work were beyond words.

  ‘Put it this way,’ she resumed. ‘The largest living bird species that fly have a maximum weight of no more than ten to fifteen kilos. Most birds aren’t that big. The majority of living bird species fall in the range of ten to a hundred grams. So we are dealing with a weight factor in the order of five to ten times what Class Aves has generally been able to solve and Class Aves was, I think, the most successful in the history of life on earth.’

  Ruokonen glanced at her slick, then refocused her gaze past my shoulder. ‘If you look at the ancient class of pterosaurs, however, you find some big fliers. The biggest, Quetzalcoatlus, has been estimated at a maximum weight of two hundred
and fifty kilos. Evidence suggests it was a good flier, though it would have spent most of its time soaring, so clearly it can be done.’

  One of Ruokonen’s own feathers, grey on top, shiny pink underneath, floated onto her desk. She ran her fingers over the vanes. I could see the feather shone with something beyond its own lustre. Traces of safety dust sparkled along the edges.

  ‘But there is something else to consider, Mr Fowler. Birds, and other flying creatures, have only the materials supplied by evolution. Skin, muscle, bone, fat, feathers. With those they have achieved miracles. Miracles. It is incredible when you truly understand what they have done. Their adaptations for flight are extraordinary and extreme. Of course we’ve borrowed from them. But we have something they don’t have.’ She paused for emphasis.

  I leaned forward. Her enthusiasm for this topic was compelling.

  ‘What we have is the ability to develop new materials and experiment with modifications in much shorter timeframes. We’re able to replace bone, for example, with a carbon-fibre–bone hybrid. This hybrid forms a light, flexible and extremely strong self-repairing lattice. It’s allowed us to pare the weight load right down.’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ I sat bolt upright. ‘You replace their bones?’

  ‘We don’t take them out,’ said Ruokonen, smiling slightly. ‘Bone is constantly in the process of formation, Mr Fowler. We modify that process so that the hybrid is incorporated over a fairly short period of time. And it’s so strong in fact that it saves us from having to modify the shape of the chest bones to attach the flight muscles. Think of a bird such as a pigeon: it has a reinforced breast bone like the prow of a ship, called a keeled sternum, to which the flight muscles attach. We’ve been able to avoid such a radical change in our form, not just by fabricating stronger bones but by growing muscles of greater explosive power, which means those muscles don’t have to be as large as the equivalent flight muscles on a bird. The muscles for Flight are so powerful that they would shatter ordinary bone if it were subjected to that force.