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

by Konig, Artor

  I made the final approach and set the craft gently down on the apron right over the H4. I nodded to the Doctor as he instructed me to shut down all systems, not to take the craft back into the hangar, “We’ll be flying again after lunch.” He said as he took his helmet off. My hands ran over the controls, shutting down system after system, leaving the screens and monitors in darkness.

  “What we’ll do is this,” He carried on, “Now Cassandra has shown us the Wren’s paces, we’ll split up. I will co-pilot Bernhart, Cassandra will co-pilot Simon in HX-WREN-II for a short flight, then Bernhart and Simon will co-pilot in HX-WREN- III and IV, giving us a chance to get the entire fleet into the air; Roger will take HX-WREN-V out. We’ll keep the flights short so all of you can familiarise yourselves with the controls before supper but each of you must go through the whole routine, using all the systems and the inertialess drive as well. The ground crew will take out the other craft while we get to our lunch. Right?”

  “Sure thing, doc.” Brett agreed for all of us, “But the old tummy feels a bit wobbly after that rodeo ride.”

  “Sorry about that.” I apologised to them, taking off my helmet and shaking out my long golden hair from its plait, sticky and stained with sweat, “But I imagine it’s not so heavy on the nerves when the inertialess drive is engaged. I just had to get to know the craft properly before turning on the old painkiller; I was flying cold, don’t forget.” I looked around me at the men in the back as I unfastened my straps and then looked at the Doctor, his face still somewhat pale.

  “God, yes.” Simon said quietly, “Flying cold; I forgot you hadn’t flown this craft before.” The Dancer was quiet; his eyes steady on my own. Bernhart, in the navigator’s couch behind the Doctor, looked around in sudden discomfort. I looked at the Doctor, his dark eyes brooding; “I expected no less, Cassandra, though I doubted for a while before the flight. I’m glad you came through like this. Come, people, and let’s see what June has in store for us.”

  “Cheese sandwiches and Blackcurrant tea.” James told him cheerfully and clairvoyantly, “Bet you shillings to pounds.”

  “I won’t take you up on that.” The Doctor told him with a laugh, “Although she may have had time to cook up something else.” I touched the door beside me, pushing it gently open. The cabin depressurised with a hiss, the cold and fog creeping in almost at once. I was wet with sweat, my limbs trembling with fatigue and reaction. I swung my legs down onto the concrete, stretching myself, flushing the fatigue from my joints.

  The cold swirled around me, clutching and grasping, running its icy fingers over the dampness of my sweater and jeans. I swung the door shut, running my eyes over the sleek lines of the craft. The Wren was unmoved, patient; watchful. The men clambered out of the craft, also somewhat slick and damp, though not from effort. I was glad that I wasn’t the only one showing signs of reaction. I left them to their progress, stretching my legs and briskly walking away from the Wren. I had mastered them; I had mastered the craft whilst it was majesty and power combined in a deadly proportion; it was the mightiest and most capable craft in its class, without equal on the face of the globe, outside this base. I had shown I was not lacking, mastered everything but that black, formless fear.

  The mists of early afternoon whipped about me as I covered the distance to the door of the farmhouse. Whereas I had been uncomfortably warm at times during the flight, now I was cold.

  I headed through the hall to my room, smelling the pleasant scent of melted cheese and blackcurrant tea in the air drifting past me. I was hungry, that was for sure, but I was jolly well going to have a shower before I did anything else. I ducked quickly into my room before anyone had a chance of waylaying me, shutting the door quietly behind me. I dug out a change of clothes and hit the shower at a run. I stripped off quickly, turning on the hot water, feeling the fiery needles soothe the shudders that had begun to shake my frame. I allowed myself to relax in the balm of that more welcome mist, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift. I turned the water off, wrung the wet from my lean form and shook my hair out of the shower-cap. I slipped into another pair of jeans and a warmer top, scooping up the discarded clothes and looking around for a convenient place to dump them. There was a smart knock at the door and I called entrée to whoever it was.

  “There you are,” June told me, “The boys look like they could do with a shower as well. Here, let me take that bundle, the wash is about to go on anyway. Jolly good show upstairs; you seem to have made a favourable impression all round though the lads seem less keen on lunch than I hoped.”

  I chuckled at her words, turning to follow her out of the room to find out where she was taking my dirty clothes. She kept up an amiable chatter as we drifted into the kitchen. She shovelled my clothes into the washing machine in the tiny scullery, along with a pile of her clothes, set the program deftly before turning back to the door, “Lunch, Cassandra, or is your tummy a bit wobbly as well?”

  “I’m jolly hungry, as a matter of fact.” I told her, “I could do with a handful of sandwiches and a pot of tea.”

  “Good.” She said as we walked into the lounge, our two seats the only empty ones left. As we entered the room they all stood up; every one of them, their eyes upon me. My face went scarlet at that unexpected tribute and I found my place in silence.

  6. June

  “I’ll take Bernhart, Andrew and James with me after lunch,” The Doctor told us between sandwiches, “Roger; you take Ronald, Craig and Brett, while Peter and Simon will fly with Cassandra. Is that fair enough?” He glanced around at us, his dark eyes clear and thoughtful as always. He had summed us up rather well for the most part, seeing that I was not comfortable with Bernhart and Bernhart kept company with James most of the time. Ronald and Roger had already formed a firm friendship to the extent that they were referred to as the two Ro’s. Peter and Simon got on reasonably well, while Craig and Brett were already known to Ronald. Andrew didn’t seem to fit in anywhere although he was easy-going in a rather rough sort of way, palling up with Bernhart in their mutual habit of looking at the world through muddy spectacles.

  I offered no comment to this arrangement, my mouth being at that moment occupied with a rather lush bit of cheese sandwich; however I managed to convey the impression that I had no objections.

  “And after the first flight?” Bernhart asked sourly, “What then?”

  “And who actually flies in the first flight, anyway?” Brett asked, looking around him in a slightly puzzled way.

  “Ronald flies, co-piloted by Roger with Craig and Brett in the navigator’s couches, Simon flies, co-piloted by Cassandra with Peter navigating. Bernhart will fly, seconded by myself, with James and Andrew navigating. Thereafter, we’ll use all five craft and give the rest of you a chance to fly, seconded by those who have already flown. We’ll work it more or less like that and see how things go.” The Doctor decided briskly. He glanced around to see whether or not this arrangement met with our wholehearted satisfaction.

  The men seemed happy enough to the extent that they turned their attention back to their food and lapsed back into the ruminative silence that I was still learning to get used to. Whereas I could be as talkative as the next fellow, I felt it wrong to open a conversation when everybody was clearly occupied with their own thoughts. I began to feel slightly shut out, remembering the last time I had given free reign to my skill, how Edward had cut me off and submerged himself into a similar silence. Clearly the mood in the room was not one that was conducive to light conversation. I turned my attention back to my sandwich, sadly neglected in my hand.

  “I helped to make the Wren,” June told me in a low voice, “But I haven’t the nerve to fly. What’s the Wren like in the air?”

  “It is responsive and massively powerful.” I replied, pitching my voice, also quiet, so that the others in the room would hear me, inviting them to ask questions, “The normal ratio of speed and responsiveness is there but the Wren is a lot more sensitive than any craft I’ve flown before.
Nonetheless she is far more stable at the same time; she won’t allow herself to be thrown out of control; she will respond to the controls almost regardless of circumstances. The rotors lift massively. I believe that the additional wing-surface and the extra control flaps make a huge difference.”

  “Frank’s idea, that.” Roger commented easily, “Putting the pitch variance motors into the rotor and making flaps on the trailing edges. He also designed the hub; entirely laser-photonic, with optical pickups; cutting down the response time by ninety-eight percent and making the ride magically smooth.”

  “Like honey,” Andrew said laconically, “She didn’t kick or fuss however she was hammered. What’s the feedback like, Cassandra?”

  “There is no flight-related feedback, only its normal spring-resistance; you have to be dashed careful not to overplay the controls in the absence of feedback. You have to pay attention to what the craft is actually doing; not what the stick is telling you. When the craft is none-inert, I would imagine you would need a good deal of careful assessment in every situation to resist the old temptation to swing wide when the stick feels dead.”

  There was a murmur of agreement; all of us had been put through situations in flight when the controls failed outright, where only one flight-system would respond, to see how we would cope with life-threatening situations. The temptation to push the joy or pitch stick right to its limit, in a panicky attempt to elicit some response from the controls, had to be sharply curbed in case the controls did respond right at their perimeter, throwing the craft out of control. I remembered that feeling of hopeless panic when the joystick of the old tri-rotor had suddenly gone slack in my hands with the craft already swooping down. It had been that part of the test where I had learnt how to dance, using the anti-torque rotor to stabilise the disc of the main rotors against themselves, easing up the throttle to begin an orderly descent. It had been one of the most frightening of all my flight experiences; but the lessons it taught I had learnt well. It was during a routine test of the joystick that control had been re-established; had I thrust the stick too far over the clumsy craft would have upended, beginning at once a fatal plunge too close to the ground for me to have compensated in time. Old Jensen had certainly taken a massive risk on my skill with that test; but it had paid off for both of us.

  “Yeah, watch for over-control when the inertialess drive is on,” Roger was saying cheerfully, “I threw the Wren into a triple spin once when the doc and I were getting used to the craft; we lost forty-two thousand feet before I clipped her tail and steadied her nose that time. Four mach as well; didn’t feel a thing for all the world was spinning like a whirligig all round us. I lost my supper after that!”

  “Don’t remind me of that, old chap.” The Doctor said painfully, “I missed about five meals after that and it still sets my teeth on edge.”

  “Well, you’ve got two Dancers and a gorgeous little Natural; we’ll feed the drill to the lads and get the old nerves settled.” Simon said cheerfully as he raised his cup of tea, “Here’s to a bit of supersonic synchrony.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Bernhart replied as we all raised our cups, “Cheerio!”

  “Come up with Simon, Peter and myself.” I asked June on impulse, “Keep an eye on the old navigation and get used to the old bird?”

  “Lord no, Cassandra; the last time I was in the air I had screaming weepies; the Doctor nearly had to sedate me. I don’t have the nerve for flying though Lord knows I’ve done enough.”

  “Well come anyway June; the Wren is the most comfortable craft I’ve ever been in, jets included.” I urged her, suddenly determined to have her with me when I tutored the two boys.

  “Go for it, June; you know you never panicked when we were out at the Crag.” Roger told her, “It was simply that time when I lost control of the Wren that has set you on edge with them. Cassandra and Simon are the two best pilots in the Kingdom; neither of them would let the Wren flip and they will both be at the controls. Give it a shot, old girl.” His voice was wheedling and June looked at him helplessly. She turned back to me, glaring in annoyance “I owe you for this, my girl. Alright, I’ll come; I may as well try and get my nerve back; but now was not the time I had in mind.”

  “Now seems like a jolly good time to me,” Simon told her with all good cheer, “Don’t worry, Uncle Simon will look after you.”

  “Now seems almost like the only time.” The Doctor said quietly, almost under his breath. A hush fell over the room and the old stone walls seemed suddenly darker, as if a shadow had fallen. I met his eyes once more, seeing the sudden gloom, the awareness of that black wave. I had a careful look at the neglected remains of my sandwich, feeling the cold of that foggy day all the more as I nibbled at what was left.

  I glanced out through the window into the mist, seeing the five Wrens waiting in the silvery gloom. Jim, Alex and Harry came puffing into the lounge just then, having taxied the Wrens into place, “Any tea left?” Jim enquired, picking up the pot and lifting off the lid, “A miserly cold spot over there; whip up some more, someone?”

  “Right.” I said, “Last cuppa; then we fly.” I uncurled myself from my cosy spot and commandeered the teapot.

  “Good girl; that’s the spirit.” Jim commended, “See if you can find some straightforward, uncomplicated tea; a fellow can’t think with all these blasted blackcurrants all over the bloody show.” He plonked himself down, helping himself to a handful of cold sandwiches. I beetled off to the kitchen with June hard on my heels, “There’s the plain Assam in that tin over there. Poor old Jim; he has only cold sandwiches; I’ll make him some more. Wash the teapot out first, get the flavour out of it.” I attended to the kettle quickly while she heated up another handful of sandwiches. We worked companionably, talking as we got the show together, “I was watching the earth plummeting, spinning, dropping from all sides at once, so damned fast; I still get nightmares every now and then.” She told me while we assembled our plunder on a couple of trays, “I haven’t been on a Wren since; though as Roger says, I do quite a lot of flying in other craft.”

  “Simon strikes me as being the finest airman I’ve ever come across, bar none. I’m comfortable at the controls and I don’t think there is any likelihood of an uncomfortable flight.” I told her reassuringly.

  “Simon’s a bit of alright as well. I guess I’ll find my nerve quickly enough.” She chuckled. She bustled busily out of the kitchen, leaving me to manage the teapot. I found my hand still to be slightly unsteady in reaction to that first flight although I was settling down quickly. After all it was less than forty minutes since we had landed. I trotted obediently after June, back into the lounge. I presented Jim with a cup of tea and he beamed up at me, “Good show pet; your blood’s worth bottling.” He savoured the tea with obvious appreciation, “Can’t think why people want to make tea complicated; it’s perfectly fine just as it is to my way of thinking.”

  “Have you ever tried peppermint tea?” I asked him innocently, having filled my own cup.

  “No.” He said shortly, “And by God I never intend to.” He caught my glance just in time, laughing along with the rest of us.

  “Peppermint tea; whatever made you think of such a ghastly thing?” He asked when the air had cleared, “It sounds diabolical.”

  “There’s a bit in the cupboard,” June began, “Maybe I should...”

  “Don’t you dare.” He told her firmly, “Ah, this tea hits the spot.” He finished his cup and refilled briskly.

  I finished a lonely sandwich that had been left on the plate, swirling the last of my tea in the cup. I was no longer in this eating mood; like a child with a new toy, I wanted to go and play some more. I looked out of the window to where the five craft waited; all five of them looked exactly the same. “How do you tell them apart?” I asked aloud. Bob caught the drift of my thoughts and answered almost at once, “You can’t, not from the outside. However, the craft are upholstered in different colours. One is mahogany, Two is ivory, Three is dark g
reen, Four is dark blue, and Five is burgundy. Apart from that you can’t actually tell them apart. We used the same moulds for each hull and for all the parts. When Wren One was so gloriously successful we went ahead with the others. Alex had the time of his life, monkeying around with vats of prussic acid and bales of Cerium and Lutetium wool, making the gel. Lord knows how he came up with that formula.”

  “’tis easy,” Alex bellowed cheerfully, “Now, Nitrogen and Cerium in a matrix of a chemical cross-laminate chemo-voltaic emulsion, suspended by a hydrated Carbon complex in an electromagnetic field in the presence of phosphorus...”

  “Enough, enough; I lost you when you started on about strings of Irish spaghetti,” Frank told him, “Go a bit slow for us, old man.”

  “Spaghetti? Irish Spaghetti? What do you talk rubbish for? I’m not talking about spaghetti! What are you on about? Talk sense for a change!” Alex spluttered, his words tumbling over each other in a seething torrent, his big, jolly face rubicund with sudden rage.

  “Ho-ho, I got you there.” Frank gasped, “Your left leg is now seven inches longer than your right leg.”

  “You’re a daft fellow, Frank. How you make things that actually fly I don’t know.” Alex told him tolerantly.

  “It’s quite easy,” Frank told him eagerly, “Let me give you a brief idea of aerodynamics,”

  “No you don’t.” June told him, hurling a convenient cushion at the clown, “We’re quite satisfied that it works and we each know our own little bit.”

  “Anyway,” I interjected smoothly, “It’s time to fly.”

  “Aces high!” James laughed, “Atta-girl, Cassandra, let’s burn clouds and brew lightning!”

  “And I’ll brew another pot of this splendid tea.” Jim murmured, “Where did you say it was, eh? In which tin have you hidden that marvellous tea?”