by Craig Zerf
She shook her head. ‘You know, my darling. I truly love you but sometimes you are just a little bit thick. Don’t you think that we need help? Desperately.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Plob. ‘But I don’t see how he could help us.’
‘Plob, we might be dead tomorrow. Isn’t it worth a try?’
The teenage magician nodded. ‘You’re right. Pass me the feather.’ He held it in his right hand and concentrated.
There was a sound like all of the air being sucked out of a balloon by an asthmatic septuagenarian and suddenly there were three in the tent.
‘Hey, Plob, my man. Long time no see,’ said Stanley.
Plob gave the son of Death a quick hug.
Stanley turned to Spice. ‘Hi. Wow, nice ti…eyes,’ he said.
Spice covered herself up with the blanket.
‘Sorry,’ said Plob. ‘I didn’t know that it worked like that.’
Science officer Roti did a little jig. A very, very small one. More in his head, than one done overtly by using his actual body. A mind jig, as befitting a science officer.
The captain walked into the laboratory. ‘Happy, officer Roti?’
‘Yes, indeedy, captain. Look.’ He held out a circle of leather, perhaps an inch across. In the middle of it was a tiny black square.
The captain picked it up. ‘Sticky.’
‘Yes, captain. But only on the one side.’
‘So, what is it?’
‘It’s a dual acceptance articulation response and dissemination mechanism.’
‘Science officer, Roti. We’ve already spoken about this.’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s a two way radio.’
‘So? We’ve got lots of those.’
‘No, sir, not like these. You see, these are designed for the dragonmen. All that they do is stick this to the side of their necks and that’s it. The radio works both ways and all received information is transferred, via bone vibration, directly to the inner ear. It should vastly help their capabilities by being able to communicate freely during combat. Plus, we’ll be able to monitor them from our bridge. We can use radar during the battle and then radio them with advice.’
‘Very clever, mister Roti. What’s the battery life on those things?’
‘Well, pretty much forever, you see, it involves the use of the degeneracy system whereby, if the energy of different states is the same, the energy level is called degenerate. However, in this 1D system there is no degeneracy. We then combine an eigenfunction of the time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substitute…’
‘Mister Roti. Simplify.’
‘Sorry, captain. I can’t. It’s quantum mechanics, sir.’
‘Hmmm…quantum mechanics, I know something about that, something to do with a cat in a box isn’t it? You put a cat in a box, along with a hammer and some poison and a radioactive isotope…ummm, I forget exactly how it goes. Anyway - you better keep some bandages on hand because, when the cat gets out, he won’t be happy.’
‘Yes, sir…that’s sort of it. Captain, there is one more thing, take a look at this.’ Roti swung the viewer to the electron microscope over to the captain who looked into the eyepiece.
‘What am I looking at?’
It’s a one hundred thousand times magnification of a sulphur molecule. I was working on increasing the explosive power of the dragon food.’
Captain Bhature looked again. ‘So?’
‘One hundred thousand times magnification, sir.’
‘Officer Roti, for the moment let us pretend that, while you were at university getting a doctorate in molecular science, I was at the naval academy learning how to fly this ship and, as a result, I have no idea what you are going on about.’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s too big. It shouldn’t look like that. That’s how it should look under a mere eight thousand times magnification.’
‘What does that mean?’
Roti shook his head. ‘I’m not one hundred percent sure, captain. I have some theories but haven’t tested them yet. All that I can say is…it’s wrong. It shouldn’t be that big…or maybe, to put it another way - we shouldn’t be this small.’
Spice was intimidated by Stanley. She wasn’t sure why. He was polite, he had a …dark…sense of humour and he obviously liked Plob.
But if you happened to look him in the eye, even fleetingly, it felt like time had stopped. No…she corrected her thinking, not stopped - slowed down. It had slowed down because, unlike normal people with their three score and ten, these eyes reflected back eons. Lives and deaths beyond counting. A million million rainy Monday mornings staring back at you.
In short - it was intimidating.
‘I’m sorry, Plob,’ said the descendent of dissolution. ‘You know the rules. We’ve been through this before.’
‘I know, but I’m as desperate as a fifty year old virgin. The next time that the Vagoths come in strength I’m dead.’
‘You’ve been dead before.’
‘As true as that is, Stanley, it’s of little bloody comfort. And, it’s not only me. It’s all of us. The death of a nation. Do you want that on your conscience?’
Stanley looked up and his eyes crackled with raw power. ‘Careful, my friend. I have no conscience, how could I? Also - I am not responsible for the rise and fall of nations. I am merely the son of the ultimate caretaker. So do not bandy with words, you are my friend, you have asked for help. I will do what I can but I must warn you that there is little that I can do.’
Plob held his hands up. ‘That’s all that I can ask. Another Blutop?’
Stanley held his mug forward and Plob topped him up.
‘Look, Plob, I’m going to have a chat with my dad. But whatever happens there’s no way that I’m going to pitch up with a thousand dragonriders or something. Firstly, you would be amazed at how few dragons there are in the known universe. Seriously - two ton, flying, fire-breathing mammals are not high on your average ladder of evolution. And secondly, if I can sway dad at all, it will be a gesture more than a solution. The pebble that starts the avalanche sort of thing.’
‘As I said, mate. I’ll take whatever I can get.’
‘I think that I can get you four flyers that dad has a bit of a soft spot for. The best that you’ve ever seen.’
‘Dragonriders?’
‘Well, sort of. Spitfire pilots actually.’
‘What’s a Spitfire?’
‘A sort of…mechanical dragon. Trust me, these boys know more about aerial combat than all of the Vagoths put together, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Try, my friend,’ said Plob.
‘I will.’
And time and space curled up on itself and Stanley was gone.
‘That,’ said Spice. ‘Is one seriously disturbing young man.’
‘Right then. So, we will still be dead?’
Stanley nodded. ‘Well, technically, yes.’
‘So,’ continued Smudger. ‘Would we be like zombies? Don’t know if I fancy that much, rotting to bits and walking around all stiff arms and legs.’
‘No, no,’ said Stanley. ‘You see, you’ll also, technically, still be alive.’
‘I don’t get it. ‘ Smudger turned to the other pilots. ‘Do you chaps get it at all?’
There was a chorus of no’s.
‘Look, it’s simple. You’re dead here. Do you accept that?’
The pilots nodded.
‘Do you feel dead?’
Smudger shrugged. ‘Not really, apart from the fact that I’m…well…here.’
‘It’s the same. You’ll all be somewhere else but dead and still be like this.’
‘Right,’ said Smudger. ‘So then, what’s in it for us?’
‘You get to fly again. And to fight.’
‘You know, Stanley old chap, not to put to fine a point on it but I’ll tell you something, flying and fighting again isn’t something that fills any of us with a fervent desire. It’s bloody terrifying; you spend half the time thinking you’re about to die and
the other half trying to make the other fellow die. It’s no way to live, don’t you know?’
‘You’ll get to fly dragons.’
Smudger smiled. ‘Well, sure. I’ll reserve judgement for that tall story.’
Stanley thought for a while. And then he said. ‘You will be fighting for good against evil. You may be their only hope. They need you.’
Smudger sighed. ‘Why didn’t you just say so in the first place? I’m in. Gentlemen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course.’
‘Lemon flavoured inner tube.’
Chapter 22
The dragon came streaking down out of the pale blue sky, pulled up at the last moment, fired three times at a tree near the end of the runway and then floated to a perfect landing. Plob dismounted, handed the reins to Boy and walked over to the group of Spitfire pilots.
Smudger, Jonno and Rufin were literally shaking with excitement, their eyes afire with a desperate need to fly one of these new, hereto mythical beasts. Belter, however, was looking decidedly ill.
‘What do you think?’ Asked Plob.
‘Cracking,’ answered Smudger. ‘We all can’t bloody wait.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Belter.
‘Come on, Belter old chap,’ said Smudger. ‘Just like a ruddy great horse with fiery breath.’
‘Yup. I hate horses. Reason I took up flying is to get as far away from bloody horses as possible. Can’t trust any animal bigger than you are. And these buggers are the biggest I’ve ever seen. Ugly too.’
Boy, who had been listening, walked over, leading a dragon buy the reins. ‘Here ye go, sir. You should be all reet wi’ this one. It’s called Buttercup. Very gentle.’
The dragon put its head down and looked closely at Belter. The spitfire pilot stood his ground but the blood drained from his face.
‘Rub it ower the eye,’ said Boy.
Belter raised a tentative hand and gingerly rubbed Buttercup on its eye-ridge. The dragon started to purr, a low rumbling sound like a thousand cats in a sound box.
‘It’s growling at me,’ said Belter.
‘Nay, sir. It’s purring. She’s happy.’
The dragon butted Belter, demanding more attention. The airman grinned and gave the huge beast a pat. ‘Not so bad, are you?’ He said. ‘So,’ he continued as he turned to Boy. ‘Buttercup, hey?’
Boy shook his head. ‘Nay, not really. I joost said tha’ ta make you at ease. Her real name’s Biter. But she’ll nay bite yoo, she likes yoo.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Cause she ain’t bit yoo yet.’
Boy gave the reins to Belter and then went back to the stables and led out a dragon for each pilot. Smudger got Inferno, Jonno got Blaze. Rufin got Flamer but he shook his head, pointed at his dragon and renamed it Pozar.
Plob and Spice gave the pilots a quick run down on how to control the dragons and they all mounted up.
‘Follow me,’ said Plob.
They thundered down the field in single file, wings beating the air as they all rose into the sky. Plob started with some straight and level flying to start, then a few gentle turns. He could see that the four airmen were totally at ease in the sky so he increased the difficulty factor some. High climbs, steep dives and sharp turns. After an hour or so he led them to the edge of the forest, picked a lone tree standing a little away from the rest, lined up, fired a shot at it and peeled away. Spice followed and then the four newcomers. Every single one hit.
Plob was well pleased and led the way home.
When they landed Boy was waiting for them, next to him, at shoulder height, captain Bhature hovered on his grav-cycle. Boy handed Plob a small sack. Plob looked inside to find a bunch of small, round bits of thin leather.
‘Right, what are these?’
‘Communicators,’ said the captain. ‘You slap the sticky side against the side of your neck and then you can speak to, and hear, anybody else who has one on.’
‘Wow, awesome. Thanks.’
‘I’ve issued some to master Smegly, the king and the T.A.D.S so that Biggest can keep better control of them. I’ve put the T.A.D.S on a different frequency to the flyers and I have allowed Smegly and the King a dual frequency option.’
Plob raised an eyebrow. ‘Captain, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Sorry, you will be able to hear the flyers, Biggest will be able to hear the T.A.D.S and the master and the king can communicate with both.’
‘Cool.’
Plob, Spice, the spitfire pilots and the rest of the dragonmen spent until late that day flying together. During this time Smudger used the communicators to drill the rules of aerial combat into them; keep the sun behind you, only fire at close range, attack from behind, if an opponent dives on you then fly up to meet him.
They mock battled over and over and over until the rules became rote with repetition.
That evening everyone went to bed early, tents pitched around the dragon stables. Ready. Waiting.
Chapter 23
Plob jerked awake to the sound of the bugle. Strident. Blaring. A call to arms. He dressed quickly and ran from the tent.
Boy was already up, holding Nim by his reins. Plob mounted, the first into the saddle. The rest of the flight was close behind him and they left the ground in a great gaggle. Plob slapped his communicator onto his neck and was immediately overwhelmed by chatter, at least six or seven voices talking at once.
‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Shut it, all of you. No unnecessary chitchat. I talk, you answer unless it’s needful. Do you all get that?’
There was a chorus of yes’s and a single ‘glue factory’ from Rufin.
‘Captain,’ called Plob. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear, commander. Enemy approaching at approximately ten thousand feet, North West from your position.’
‘Right, gentlemen, get some height and head for the sun. Let’s see how high these beasts can go.’
The Dragonflight started to climb, vast wings beating gracefully against the rising sun, tall ships of the air. They rose quickly to around fifteen thousand feet where the air was thin and even the dragons were starting to labour to get enough oxygen into their huge lungs. They flew straight and level, the sun behind them, heading towards the enemy.
‘Commander, RADAR shows that they should be visible soon.’
Plob strained his eyes and, sure enough, a gaggle of dots on the horizon, slowly getting bigger. It looked like thirty bandits, twenty fighters and ten heavies.
‘Wingman Smudger,’ said Plob.
‘Commander?’
‘Suggestions?’
‘We dive at them out of the sun, punch through the formation to break it up and then turn hard and hit them from behind. Remember, only fire when you see the white of their dandruff.’
‘Everyone ready?’
‘Yes- wotcha - ready - placenta.’ Came the replies.
‘Let’s go…whoopee.’
And like the wrath of gods the Dragonflight dove. When they were almost on top of the enemy Plob opened fire. Three quick rounds. All three hit the leading heavy.
Everyone else opened up at the same time, blasting over thirty rounds of burning plasma into the Vagoth formation. They were so close it was hard to miss and seven enemies went down almost immediately.
And then they were through and turning hard. A Vagoth fighter drifted in front of Plob and he squeezed off two rounds, hitting the dragon in the wing. It spiralled out of control. He felt a crackle of heat as a ball sizzled past him at close range.
‘Behind you, Plob!’ Shouted someone.
He turned hard and then jinked the other way, throwing off his attacker. To his left he saw Rufin flying his dragon perilously close to an enemy heavy and then firing at almost point blank range. The enemy literally exploded in front of him. Plob turned inside his attacker and burnt him from the sky.
A Vagoth had latched onto Spice and was following her through her evasive manoeuvres, twis
ting and turning with her. Plob dropped in behind him and blasted him out of the saddle.
‘Thanks, oh mighty commander,’ called Spice.
Plob latched onto a heavy and pumped four rounds into it, sending it screaming to the ground. He looked around him for another target but the air was empty.
He could see a number of smoking pyres in the distance but any other dragons were mere specks on the horizon as the aerial combat had scattered them far and wide.
‘Spice?’
‘Alive and well. Heading for home.’
‘Smudger?’
‘Present.’
‘Rufin?’
‘Melons.’
One by one the dragon flight checked in as they flew homeward. But Canjo, Baron Waldork’s son, and Plage, the king’s cousin, were not to be heard.
‘Anyone see Canjo or Plage?’ Asked Plob.
‘Plage went down as we attacked,’ answered Spice. ‘Crashed into a Vagoth heavy. They both went down.’
‘Canjo?’
No one answered.
That evening the Dragonflight celebrated. The defence had been a spectacular victory. For the loss of two men they had brought down twenty-two Vagoths, nine heavies and thirteen fighters.
But two families did not celebrate. Nor would they for a very long time. Fair mention would be made of the young heroes who died for their country, burials would be conducted with military honours and plaques would probably be set.
But none of those things will bring back a son, or friend or brother.
Typhon raged and ranted, erupted with exasperation, screamed and seethed and stormed and spluttered and shouted out his spleen as he strode about the room. ‘What, in the name of all that is buggery bollocks, happened out there?’
Herr Gobling shrugged, a gesture that brought his multiple chins into blobby relief as the lapped against his jawbone. ‘They were expecting us.’
‘So? They were expecting us all of the times before. How did we suddenly become so useless?’
‘I think, perhaps, my Fuhrer, they have gotten better. Their dragons have increased firepower, and they flew…like veterans. Something rather radical has happened.’
