Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra!

by Konig, Artor

  It had taken less than thirty seconds to reach that height, yet even with the inertialess system inactive, there had been very little sensation of movement. There was only a slight pressure pushing me into the soft and yielding strength of the couch. I looked around, glancing down between the pedals at where the base was supposed to be, according to the readout on the monitor.

  There was nothing to see but silver fog, above, below and on all sides; but the craft knew where she was, those electronic senses and prying microwaves discovering all the secrets of the hidden world below me. I opened up the throttle, heaved the stick forwards, feeling that sudden pressure as the airspeed indicator leapt in response. The craft bolted forwards and up, the jets screaming and mist blasting past the windscreen but in the cabin the silence was eerie; I felt the wind but heard it not; and nobody spoke. Beyond four-fifty knots we went, into the fives, climbing towards six hundred knots, five thousand feet and climbing, the hammer of blood and adrenalin replacing that first trepidation.

  The craft burst through the cloud level with a howl of nuclear fire spewing from the blazing turbines, a silver dart from the grey mist. A proximity alarm flashed; I wheeled and dived automatically, sweeping the blades narrowly beneath a small craft trotting on its own busy way, unaware of a near hit occurring right below its wheels. I brought the Wren back into its climb, opening the throttle further. The ground-clearance monitor showed a wider and wider view of the landscape below me, the proximity-indicator broadening its scope as my speed increased. Familiar shapes caught my eye on the monitor causing me to turn the craft in a savage arc, plunging into a screaming dive. The rotor lights flicked out as I swept down, the airspeed indicator leaping through seven-fifty through eight hundred and beyond. The craft was diving at nine-twelve knots when I pulled out, levelling the Wren at barely a hundred feet above the treetops. I tore the craft around in a tight circle, my eyes on the screens, my hands and feet gentle on the controls as I swept the craft into a dead hover directly over my house. I surfaced from the flush which had overcome me to have a look around, staring dry-eyed at the gloomy collection of buildings barely a hundred feet below where I sat. I glanced at the readouts, looked around me at the passengers and the Doctor.

  They were all in place; the readouts were all in the green. The Wren could take all of that and more. I set my course to the north, rising and accelerating gradually in a long drift up, flying solely with instruments. By the time I was over the base once more, the huge rotors had again disengaged, leaving the craft riding on turbines. As the thousand-knot point approached the craft began to ride more roughly, the leading-edge rotor shuddering as the tip broke the sound barrier more and more frequently whilst the rest of the craft was still two-hundred knots sub-mach. I eased the craft back to nine-eighty and concentrated on gaining altitude, dodging the occasional aircraft whose flight path that invisible missile crossed. Once into the jet streams the Wren really surged, leaping in both speed and altitude while the tropopause faded beneath.

  I saw the northern ocean beneath me with tiny fluffs of cloud marching in a businesslike progression across its face. I activated the radiation shielding as the Wren strove higher, moments before the craft was due to activate the shielding automatically.

  My visor pressed down, the microwave-augmented sight showing details virtually beyond my ken with vigorous clarity. The air was thin, up here, tenuous, the rotors wheeling in nearly futile progression above my head. To the east the grey of land showed; to the north was the white of unbroken ice. The altimeter showed nearly sixty-thousand feet, the thrust of the twin turbines gusting at ninety thousand pounds, the sky above my head was violet, pricked with the sinister light of day-stars although the windscreens had darkened against short radiations. Still I kept the craft below a thousand knots; still I left the afterburners and the ramjets silent. The rotors still wheeled above my head.

  The craft soared serenely on, boring into the chill air above the northern ice on that clear line. There was little sensation of movement now that I was keeping the speed constant. There was that stupefying grandeur of flight, the awareness of the huge orb beneath my feet, the hell fires blazing from the exhausts, yet there was that serenity as well, as if I could have simply kept flying forever. I scanned the readouts, activating the life-support system by voice, seeing that the free-oxygen level in the cabin was getting low. The compass flickered, seeming to dance about its axis for a moment, bringing my mind back to the immediate essentials of the flight. I heaved the stick over, jamming the throttle and pitch right down, plunging in a swooping helical descent, my eyes flicking from one readout to the next, watching the compass for the anomaly that I knew would be repeated.

  The compass jarred again. I slowed the craft, levelling her out, descending through the multiplex, vicious winds of the higher levels then into the polar calm. Sedately but swiftly the craft went down, hovering in the midst of the magnetic storm. The ground-clearance came abruptly into focus, showing white, silver and grey on the screen. The life support cut out, the radiation screen still maintained its stubborn shielding. The Wren sank, slowing up as the ice came closer. The compass maintained its idle spin, the rotors whispering in the frigid cold. I had a careful look at the ground display and the view from the screen below the pedals.

  There was a hut of some sort, ice bound and dreary, close to the site of the magnetic north pole, apparently long deserted and submitting sullenly to neglect and perpetual cold. The view was dull, the sun below the horizon but still lighting the sky to a certain extent. The ground was piled high with tumbled blocks of ice, the equipment on the magnetic pole buried under tonnes of debris. I looked at the screen, calling up an infra-red scan below and of the hut. Both infra-red and life-monitor told the same blue-cold story; nobody was there; nor had been there for a long time. I glanced at the planetary-placement map, angled the nose for home then eased out the throttle once again.

  “Cheese,” A voice sounded in my earphones, an explosive release of pent up emotion, “It’s a good thing old Cassandra is flying.” James went on, “I sure don’t think I could have ridden down the polar magnetic funnel, not cold. This bird sure is the crocodile’s tail, isn’t it, doc?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t have tried that stunt, not from mach point nine to a dead hover on that flicker.” The Doctor replied, his face slightly pale, “But then, I’m only a nine-five myself.”

  “Come now boys, this craft needs to dance and really fly. With these sensors and monitors you could do your knitting while landing on a jumbo’s wing. This craft just about flies itself; it’s magic.”

  I turned my attention back to my flying, keeping the craft straight and level at four-hundred feet clearance while the lads talked themselves out. From what I knew of men, the chattering would not go on for long but they had been quiet for a lengthy period while enduring a rather hectic flight, so the outburst of emotion was not surprising. Nor did it surprise me that James was the first one to speak.

  The airspeed was creeping up again, though I kept my clearance at about four-hundred feet. The stick danced in my hands as tall ice crags loomed ahead and screamed past. I kept my eyes on the monitors, only occasionally glancing through the screen that had iced up slightly before the defroster kicked in. As the airspeed crept up the need for the defroster was reduced for all the air beyond the impermeable cabin glass was icy.

  I glanced over the functions monitor and then looked over the bleak continent, seeing no signs of human life; hardly expecting them, though there was any number of people in various bases under the ice. I pulled back the stick, opening up the throttle, heading on a column of fire for the troposphere. The sky went from white to violet in a bare blaze of power, the airspeed tripping over itself to keep up with us. I opened the throttle full out, feeling the bellow of the continuous explosion behind me, seeing the mile-long jet-trail in the rear-guard monitor, narrowing my eyes and stiffening my sinews against the massive g-forces pressing me relentlessly into my seat. I could see the curv
e of the orb beneath me. I pulled down the visor, clipped on the radiation screen and life support, glanced over the readings once again. My hand came off the throttle for a moment, touched the afterburner switches, then the ramjets. My fingers curled around the throttle once again, easing down the throttle against the huge surge of additional power. I pressed the wing-wrack sequence, ignoring the inertialess drive completely. I would try that out in my own time. “Hold tight, boys.” I whispered, opening out the throttle to its terrible limit.

  There was no howl of fury to reach my ears, no scream of terrifying speed, just a huge weight crushing me back into the couch as those awesome exhausts blasted out their raging flame of supernormal power. The sky was black, speckled with streaks of rainbow light, points signifying stars distorted by the hideous pressure on my face and the torque of the craft’s spiral ascent. The airspeed’s display had changed from m/h to m/s, and it stood at seven and a half, almost static but still creeping up slowly. The proximity alarm was at its limit and my hands drifted slightly on the controls in response to its sudden warnings. Ground clearance had changed from feet to miles and stood at three-hundred before I levelled the craft out, twisting the craft on its long axis so the glowering orb of our world showed above us.

  “My God,” Whispered Bernhart reverently, “Isn’t it magnificent?” We stared dry-eyed at the most beautiful sight man could hope to see, the misty blue orb which is our only home. “I’m glad you took the first show, Cassandra,” Simon said quietly, “I would not have had the nerve to try for this.”

  “I didn’t know the Wren could break out without the inertialess drive.” The Doctor said quietly, his eyes on the view in front of him, “So I’ve learnt a couple of things today; which is good.”

  “I’ve certainly learnt not to take a pretty face at face value or to jump to conclusions.” Andrew chuckled. I looked hard at the Doctor for a moment before turning back to the monitors to see where we were. The pace of the craft was still steadily increasing; my hands steady in concert on the controls. I recalled a few pieces of information from the planetary navigation course on practicalities, seeing how nearly redundant the course was in the face of the state-of-the-art equipment aboard the Wren.

  She told me just how high, fast and exactly where I was; I had only to choose where I wanted to go next. My hand left the throttle, playing over the central dash, my eyes on the radar/radio telescope monitor. Radar was blank, relying on reflected signal as it did, but the telescope was different; it monitored incoming signals. A map of the Solar system appeared on the screen, the details scanty but showing just about everything in the sector that was now directly in front of the craft, out into deep space. Whatever it was I was looking for wasn’t there; or maybe I wouldn’t have recognised it anyway. The arc swept along as the craft surged around the face of the globe, into the sable, sombre gloom of the night side.

  I looked at the map display, easing back on the throttle. The screens showed the face of the earth above that seemed to be obscured in its nocturnal darkness. I looked up through the windscreen, seeing the huge black shadow, all that I could see without augmentation to my vision. There were speckles of light dusting the ominous darkness, tiny diffuse glows that signified the mighty cities of earth.

  “This planet is damned vulnerable to an attack from space.” I gritted through my teeth, looking directly at the Doctor.

  “Yes, especially from the night side.” He agreed amiably but there was a certain tension in his voice which I had never heard before. Knowing that I was close to his secret lore I deliberately shot wide, knowing that the others in the cabin could hear every word, “That’s what those nukes the big bad boys have would see on their way down, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is. And they come down so fast, with radar tracking and all the rest of it, that no blackout would ever get them off target. It’s all so bloody senseless, so stupid and wasteful.”

  “Could the Wrens stop a nuclear war?” Craig asked; his voice thick with some unreadable emotion.

  “We have the weapons and just about the speed and if all five craft were suitably positioned, we could knock off each missile as it came by.” The Doctor replied, a certain note of relief in his voice.

  “That’s the plan, isn’t it, doc? To set up an emergency last minute effort in case those hooligans with nukes decide to bust everything up?” Brett’s voice had a note of awe in it.

  “Yes, that was my intention. To drift along to a spot where there was unnecessary conflict going on and cool things down. Both nuclear and conventional war; the Wren is admirably suited to that.”

  On sudden impulse I slammed down the visor of my helmet and engaged the combat mode of the craft. There was a new sound in the cabin as the war-mode was engaged, a deadly whisper of new power. I cast the long telescopic eye of the craft out, into the darkness beyond, finding what I was looking for in barely seconds. The multiple crosshairs merged into a single, faint cross as the u. v. lasers focussed on the faraway hurtling mass of stone. I cast the image onto the screen, with its approximate position relative to the Wren. “Now you see it,” I said clearly, as my finger pressed gently onto the small red button, “Now you don’t.” There was a chirrup of deadly power as the lasers fired; all eight of the weapons that could be brought to bear on the faraway meteor.

  There was a glow of white fury before the stone exploded into dust, as if Thor’s hammer had smashed it asunder.

  “Gads,” Burst out James, his voice a pitched squeak, “A bull’s eye at six hundred thousand miles odd; not bad for a first shot!”

  “If you can split peas at that distance it should be quite simple to blast missiles at a few thousand miles.” Peter said, his voice unmoved. But then he was an air-force veteran, quite used to weapons and war.

  “I don’t think you can miss with this system.” I said, “After all I haven’t so much as fired a water-pistol before, so I can’t claim to be an expert.”

  “It’s all part of the art.” Bernhart told me, apparently reconciled with my rating, “If you have a rating above ninety-five it means you can target a craft and hold steady whatever the range of your weapons. Being a Natural I’m not surprised you can bust boulders at half-a-million miles, even one only a dozen yards across like that one. It doesn’t surprise me but it damn-well impresses the hell out of me.” For the first time there was a note of genuine warmth in his voice.

  “I don’t know which impresses me more, the craft or the pilot.” Simon agreed, “And she flies pretty well, as well.” There was a surge of almost hysterical laughter, laughter that I joined in with, the first act of complete unity that all ten of us had acted on in accord. I disengaged the war systems, my eyes recording all that the instruments had to tell me. I looked up as the line of flame dawned over the arc of the orb. My visor was down; I saw the vision in brilliant colours with the deadly brightness muted within tolerance. But the rest of them could only see what went on within the cabin, protected from the raw majesty of the sun by the opaqueing of all the windows. I spun the craft on its axis, feeling the play of the torque on my body. I mapped my position, easing the stick to one side and heading the nose down.

  Applying steadily increasing thrust, I dragged the Wren’s orbit down, my eye on the terminator below me. The wide Atlantic gleamed in a pearly blue-grey through my visor although the windows were still dark. The instruments played over the vital facts governing my descent, my eyes flickered from one display to the next, judging and measuring. The hull-temperature was creeping up steadily, already high but well below the danger mark. At the thirty-mile mark the display reverted to feet, the miles per second flicking back to miles per hour. I disengaged the ramjets, leaving the afterburners blazing. The windscreens lightened, showing the welcome world in its familiar majesty. The ocean lay spread beneath us. I swerved to avoid a head-on collision with a jet-liner, diving below that air lane. At wave-top height I levelled out, taking the time to check all the flight systems, thoroughly and carefully. Everything was still in
the clear, from the reactor to the play of the compass; the Wren was untouched, almost indifferent to her recent trip beyond the edge of the world.

  The craft was maintaining a steady four-point-eight mach at one hundred and seventy feet. Details of the sea flashed past beneath, the Wren swerving around and between the heavy-seeming traffic on the ocean surface. I pulled the craft up, tearing through the Irish skies, crossing the face of the Emerald Isle with a nearly contemptuous scream. The Welsh mountains flashed below and I turned the craft’s nose so slightly north, bringing her around in a wide arc. I deftly pulled back on the stick, easing up on the throttle, disengaging the afterburners.

  With another glance at the map display I pulled back the reins, slipping the craft below the sound barrier and freeing the rotors from the wing-wrack. She shuddered, settling back to her sub-mach flight configuration, her speed settling down to a modest six hundred knots. Before us the base appeared, the mist thinning in the glorious afternoon sunlight. I raised the visor, my eyes narrowed against the gleam of the fading fog. Carefully I read the instruments, relying on them rather than the tenuous sight of the base through the mist. I looked across to the Doctor, my glance steady, “Do you think we’ll be late for lunch?” I asked hopefully.

  There was an explosive sound from James, who spluttered for a few moments before he found his voice, “Once around the world and back, tripping along to the bleeding North Pole, potting meteors beyond the moon, dodging ships at five mach, and the lady is ready to tie a knot in a good lunch!”

  I knew he was shaking his head, although I was concentrating on landing the craft, radioing down to the base and confirming my approach “Good timing, Cassandra,” Bob’s cheerful tenor came over the radio, “June’s just finished beating your lunch into shape; I bet you’re a bit peckish after that show.” I exploded into laughter as the undercarriage emerged and extended itself.