by Konig, Artor
Andrew arrived next, slightly red-eyed and sour. He had forgotten to shave, his breath somewhat gentled by the scent of dental cream. He sat down in silence across the room, staring moodily through the window that was just behind me.
“Howdeedoo, folks.” Brett chirruped as he waltzed through the door, obviously at peace with the world. He was followed by Craig, short and compact, also quite cheerful. Simon stalked into the room with supple, catlike grace; he was another Dancer, lean and powerful, taller than the Doctor, almost as tall as I was but lacking the subtle weight and strength that gave the Doctor an air of authority. He settled himself beside me on the couch as the Doctor walked briskly in.
“Morning, Cassandra, Gentlemen. Today we are going to get ourselves familiarised with the Wren. Each craft is able to carry twelve people, so there’ll be space to spare. We will each fly the craft in its various configurations; there will be an experienced co-pilot in each instance. Are there any questions?”
“Yeah.” Bernhart drawled lazily, “Who gets to fly first?”
The Doctor looked at him carefully, weighing up the look of casual arrogance and the relaxed air. “Well obviously the most qualified will get the first shot.” He replied easily, “So, who is our most qualified pilot?”
Bernhart’s grin became broader, more unsightly, “Me, of course; I’m a nine-sixer; there are only two of us in the Kingdom.”
“Yeah,” Simon agreed affably, “And I’m the other.” He met the shorter man’s venomous look with a certain steadiness; I could see that there was no love lost between them. The Doctor looked from one to the other, his eye wicked; “Well gentlemen, I’d love to let you fight it out; but we’ll place you in order according to age; Simon will fly first, after our highest-ranking pilot.”
“Ninety-six is the highest, last time I looked.” Bernhart protested, his expression showing the beginnings of a high dudgeon.
“Cassandra, may I see your license?” The Doctor inquired, marching over to me. In silence I handed it over to him. He flipped open the document, still crisp and new, to the bit that contained my details and rating; “Cassandra Samantha Reid, registered as of three weeks ago; rated at one hundred. She’s the only Natural in the pack. Gentlemen, I did not ask this young lady to join us because I felt we needed some good looks, although she is undoubtedly quite gorgeous. I asked her to join us, as with the rest of you, because you are the best available. Nobody here is rated at below ninety-four; there is a bare six percent between you all. This is the last time that you will be ranked in this way and the only reason why I am asking Cassandra to fly first is because she is the only one who will be able to fly a Wren cold. The rest of you will need that extra half-hour onboard experience to allow you to get used to the controls. Cassandra, do you mind leading the flock?”
“Not at all, Doctor.” I replied with just the right blend of humility and confidence, “I’m rather looking forward to it.”
He smiled at me, handing back my certificate, before turning back to the others. A numb silence had fallen over the men, their faces for the most part unreadable. James, irrepressible as ever, broke in, “An angel with pants! Go get them, Cassandra, show the boys where they get off!” He leapt to his feet, “What’re we waiting for, doc?”
“Right, lads, let’s have a look at the Wren, this way, please.” He led the way out of the room as the men rose to their feet. I followed quickly behind him, feeling eyes on my back. There was a good amount of respect there; after all, the pilot’s rating system was just about the most stringent of any licensing qualification. But there was a certain amount of resentment breathing down my back and I didn’t like it.
James and Simon kept pace with me once we had left the farmhouse behind, James with a certain amount of difficulty as he was a good measure shorter than Simon or me.
“Say,” He said, “Now I remember; old ferret, what’s his name, Jensen; he was the fellow who rated you; I saw it in Aviation Weekly two weeks ago; but by gum that photo did you no justice.” His tongue was running away with him, “I had a word with Jensen and he said he never knew a tri-blade could do those things until he had a look at the manual back dirt-side. Cheese, the poor fellow took three days off before he dared fly again. And that was you?”
“That was me, Jimmy,” I said, resting a hand each on the two well-muscled shoulders to either side of me, “So I hope you boys haven’t had too much breakfast. The Wren is apparently a bit hotter than the old three-way milk-churn.”
“Crumbs, you’re right.” James assented, “But old Jensen is only a seventy-five with a rubber-tummy; I figure I can cope with the old rollercoaster.”
“Good man.” I told him fondly, “Let’s have a look at the Doctor’s new blender.” We were halfway across the apron, in the midst of the helicopter landing pads. “Cassandra, please taxi the craft to number four when we’re all aboard, then do a thorough pre-flight; I will explain each step as we go along; then take us up.” The Doctor instructed me briefly.
In front of us Jim and Sam were fighting with the massive hangar doors. I looked within eagerly, seeing the silvery shapes in the gloom beyond. The mercury discharge lighting came on in sections as Jim ran his hand down a panel of switches, missing and hitting the switch levers with the ease of long familiarity. The deep purple glow of the lamps as they struck to life lit the chamber eerily before they flamed to their green-white brilliance. We walked quietly into the high and airy barn, obviously extended and modified, yet keeping its old character. On the smooth and shiny floor they stood, passive and watchful; the five Wrens.
“Take that one out, the third from the end.” The Doctor told me, turning to speak to Jim as I walked up to the specified craft. I kept my eyes on that massive silver dart, assessing, measuring. The Wren was not small; the hub was a good metre and a half above my head, the rounded nose almost as high as my waist. The stumpy rotors drooped but very slightly, much less than in any other craft I had seen.
The hull of the craft was silvery but as I stood close to it I could see it was not metallic. Those glass rivets I had noticed on the film the morning before were more apparent now; smooth lenses of a centimetre diameter, somehow signifying eyes or at least an alertness of some sort. On the left side of the cabin where I stood there were two doors, the co-pilot’s door and a slightly larger one just behind. There were no handles at all on either door; the seams of the door were barely visible. At a loss as to how to proceed, I put my hand to where the handle should have been, aware of James and Simon just behind me, the other pilots coming across the smooth concrete. There was a hiss as the cabin depressurised, the door opening all by itself. Simon laughed, “So you know all the tricks, Cassandra?”
“Seemed like a sensible thing to do.” I replied cheerfully as he opened the rear door in the same mysterious way, “All aboard, lads.”
I left the door open for the Doctor, who had finished his chat with Jim and was striding busily across the floor towards us. Easily and casually he clambered aboard as I sat in the soft and luxurious couch.
The basic controls were the same as any other chopper, within limits. The craft was equipped with two helmets, a central dash, dual monitors and three rows of pushbutton controls down the centre of the cabin roof, much lower over the pilots’ couches than further back in the cabin. All the controls were well within my reach. I sat silently, studying the controls, fixing in my memory where each switch was. There were more basic controls rigged into the pitch stick and cyclic than I was used to, more buttons and monitors, each one clear and meaningful, for all that most of the controls were dark. The only switch of those in the ceiling that was alight, therefore active, was simply marked ‘REACTOR’.
I glanced at the other trios of switches arranged behind it; JET PRIMARY, TURBINE, AFTERBURNERS, RAMJET, ROTORS, and INERTIALESS SYSTEM. “Those buttons engage each system as labelled,” The Doctor said quietly, “There are two buttons on the joystick, the index and thumb button. The thumb button activates the super-stage burners, wh
ichever is engaged, the rotors being disengaged automatically once the craft crosses the three-quarter mach threshold. The autogyre-effect of the rotors at that speed is sufficient to support the craft in free-flight. The index button is the principle firing button for the craft’s war system.” He glanced seriously around him to see how we were taking this; “Targeting is by sight through the helmet, the visor of which has a multi-screen facility showing views along all six axes, plus and minus. The war system on the craft consists of multi-spectrum lasers, from masers at the bottom of the range to X-lasers at the top. There are six independent laser systems, engaged through the central dash, or by vocal command. That monitor on the inside shows craft functions, the next is the artificial horizon and compass, the planetary-placement map, proximity and terrain clearance, the outermost monitor is the tail-guard, showing who’s behind you. Over here on the war-systems dash is such other functions as life-support, radiation screening, radar and radio controls. All systems, including pilot-assist and autopilot, are voice controlled as well as through these controls. On the pitch-stick we have the wing-wrack system as well as the undercarriage controls.” He fell silent, looking at me as I studied the layout of the controls. I nodded, glancing at him again.
In silence I stepped out of the craft, walking around the silver missile, my eyes taking in every detail. The rest of them caught on to my example at once and soon we were all out, measuring, eyes on vent, exhaust, rotors, the long, sleek line of the tail, the businesslike stubby anti-torque rotor. I glanced under the craft, had a close look at the two exhaust vents before scaling the side of the craft to examine closely the broad, low convex discus that was the hub. The unit was sealed, the pitch-adjustment of the rotors powered from within the rotors themselves. The joint between hub and rotor was a bit too wide for me to get my hand around, a powerful, unshakable solidness belying the fact that the controls were so swift in response.
The rotor blade flared out to almost a metre in width, ten centimetres in depth, more of a wing than a rotor, filled with the unutterable promise of speed and power. I could just make out the sliding panels in the smooth surface of the hub which facilitated the rotor’s movement when it went through the wing-wrack procedure. I knocked on the hull but the result was disappointing; there was no sound of hollowness and the silvery material seemed to be inches thick. “That is a double hull, completely evacuated.” The Doctor told me, “Totally soundproof and rated as sufficiently secure for deep-space situations. We do have independent oxygen supplies should the cabin be depressurised in almost any circumstance but with a thousand space-hours, this craft has needed none of its emergency functions.”
There was a hint of complacency in his voice and I glanced down at him. There was, I was sure, no place for complacency in what was coming up for all of us. I realised that for myself at least, I had better be on full alert at all times. I turned myself and slid down the slippery flank of this powerful beast, wondering why the Doctor had called it a Wren. I went through a list of more powerful creatures in my mind, trying to fit each one onto this massive yet strangely lithe and lively craft before finally shaking my head. No name belonging to a living creature on this small earth would ever fit the Wren, so the name the Doctor had given it would serve as well as any other. Anyway it was the Wren, as I remembered the story; for the Wren had flown higher than even the mighty eagle, to become the King of the Birds.
5. Test Flight
Even now the Wren is a word that conjures up conflicting images in my mind, standing here on my pointless watch, guarding a deserted island in the midst of an unforgiving ocean, guarding the Wren against the chance that it would ever again be needed. I remember that feeling of awe as I saw the Wren for the first time, the feeling of tremendous, irresistible power. He had created power to face down power, a silver missile to burst through the black wave. It was a physical triumph of man over that depthless horror, but it was a Pyrrhic victory if ever there had been one; I slam my fist into my palm; I had told the Doctor, told him so clearly and so often in those last days when a new wonder had caught him in its cunning web. But I’d sorted that out in the end.
I felt laughter welling up again, self-mockery at the name my parents had chosen for me, the irony of a past that had chosen to repeat itself. Angrily I crushed the hysterical laughter once again; I know well enough that I cannot afford that weakness. With a certain amount of effort I schooled my thoughts back to that red morning when first I had flown this magnificent craft. The emotion is still there, dry and bitter now but still carrying a hint of that powerful adrenalin surge. I shut my eyes, allowing the scent and sound of the sea to soothe my frayed nerves, bringing my mind back into focus. There is salt on my cheeks, a taste of fury in my mouth though that emotion is ashes, cold and grey.
My knees absorbed the jolt of my landing from the flank of that super-chopper easily, swinging me aside and leading naturally to those few paces back to the pilot’s door. I peered through the windows of the craft again, admiring the deep mahogany of the interior, the plush fittings and comfortable couches. Four rows of couches, two of three and the front two rows in pairs behind the two pilots’ seats. The pair of couches behind the control cabin were fitted with additional controls, firing posts and secondary control monitors. The eight seats behind were for passengers; twelve places in the craft, four of them active. I swung into my couch, nodding to the Doctor. Now that I knew the exact dimensions of the craft I felt confident that I could control and manoeuvre the craft on the ground, often more tricky than actual flying. The lads scrambled aboard as the Doctor sat down beside me; not that they would have been left behind. I reached behind me for the straps; hip and shoulder straps in pairs, soft nylon netting, padded and somewhat flexible, attached with inertia reels that locked into the required setting during inertialess flight. The fit was snug, the couch comfortable. I made adjustments; the last person to use this place had been a lot smaller than me. I waited patiently while the boys in the back settled down, finding their headphones and straps. A voice came over the intercom, clear and sharp, “HX-PROTO-WREN, air clearance, ground clearance, all systems inactive; preparing for pre-flight, respond?”
“Ground clearance, air clearance confirmed. How read Technicians?”
“It’s looking good, radiation at background, ground monitors of all systems in the green.”
I reached down the dour grey helmet and slipped it on, raising the visor as I had another look around at the controls. I rested my hand gently on the throttle at the end of the pitch stick, testing its resistance. The joystick yielded under my other hand with a certain amount of resistance, less than the drag of a hydraulic craft, with less of the specific lines of resistance that other machines had. The controls were electro-photonic, with ring-resistance keeping the stick in the neutral position. The pedals were spring-loaded and counterbalancing, with three lines of function, anti-torque rotor, rudder aileron and forward wheel when it was extended.
“HX-PROTO-I-WREN, pre-flight completed. We are ready for basic activation.”
“Confirmed.” I replied softly, glancing up at the row of switches above my head, remembering the Doctor’s words, “Just jets for ground manoeuvring, unless you’re in a hurry and already in wing-wrack with a clear horizon. Then you can go straight onto the super-stage thrust.” I reached up; pressing the two outer buttons marked ‘JETS’, dropping my hands at once to the dark monitors. The middle button of any row of three deactivated the outer two buttons. As each screen was touched they came to life, the lucid LED colour display crisp but not distracting. The proximity monitor clearly showed the features of the barn all around me with the lethal tracery of the war system’s crosshairs playing over each salient feature and person, ready for any command I should decide to issue. I checked each monitor, studying the thrust readout, easing the throttle gently forward to assess its response. I pressed down the visor, quietly asking for all-surround visual as the craft slowly eased forwards. My feet were gentle on the pedals, turning the craft
deftly.
The wide doors were open before me, gouts of superheated air issuing forth from the exhausts of the mighty craft. The plasma generated by the reactor in the heart of the engine system, the Doctor had assured me, was in the order of four thousand degrees centigrade but it was essentially just hot air, no more radioactive than it was before it had entered the vents. Chemically, he agreed, it was a bit different for its scalding, with some rather curious variations of nitrogen and oxygen present in amongst the carbon-dioxide, ozone and other gases. But they tended to return to their former state after a while. I cancelled the multi-view after leaving the barn, concentrating on placing the craft in the middle of the correct landing pad. Once it was in place, I applied the brakes. Then my hand reached up again, to the second control system. Gently I pressed the two rotor buttons, my eye on the function monitors.
Exhaust thrust dropped dramatically at once as I activated the wide blades due to the added load on the engines. I turned on the turbine system, augmenting the thrust through the drive and hub power relay. The craft became slightly more vibrant, more alive as the wide blades began to turn. But there was no noise in the cabin, only that slight vibration, that hint of unspeakable power.
The rotors achieved flight-speed within twelve long, slow seconds, a good minute and a half faster than a jet-ranger, much faster than the old tri-blade which I had almost forgotten. Bracing my foot gently on the right pedal to counteract the inevitable surge to the left once the craft’s undercarriage left the ground, I eased the pitch-stick up and the joystick slightly forward. The mist of that bleak day seemed that much thicker for the cabin being isolated from it and my eyes were on the monitors in front of me rather than wasting time looking into the pea soup beyond the steeply profiled windscreen. Numbers started flashing on the ground-clearance, leaping higher at a somewhat alarming rate. I banked the craft in a slight spiral, levelling out at a thousand feet. I eased down on the throttle and held the craft steady in a hover, its nose into the wind from the south.
