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

by Konig, Artor

  It then occurred to me that the Doctor was taking a huge risk in choosing to tackle this menace with no back-up other than myself and these two craft. I turned her nose back down; back to the grim height of Black Crag so infinitely far below. I sent out a tight beam sensor after Number One, reporting that I had completed the test program and was returning to base. The Doctor responded at once, saying that his test was almost complete and could I put on a spot of tea?

  I chuckled softly as I lined the craft up to the entrance of the Nest, gentling her back to her spot with its huge number three painted onto the concrete. She settled down cheerfully enough, seeming as pleased with the results of her trip as I was. I shut down her systems, petting her to sleep as darkness came over the monitors. I trotted importantly away to the lower control, logging her in and transferring a record of the test into the central system. The mainframe digested this new slice of information quietly, finally producing a clear and grim picture. It had found the bit that mapped the progress of the seven alien craft and had added it to its last monitored posting.

  I peered thoughtfully at the image, conceding that the space between the previous dot and the latest one was rather large and wondering what the full import of this was. I left the information on the monitor for the Doctor to have a look at when he arrived before going to get the kettle on.

  The thunder of the Wren arriving was loud; harsh; the power and flame tangibly warm, the majesty frightening. It was another first for me; witnessing the arrival of one of the craft from outside the cabin of one of the Wrens. Every other time I had been inside a craft. I watched the landing critically as the Doctor settled the craft down. He was a nine-fiver; he lacked that little edge and co-ordination required to be a Dancer but he was a damned good flyer all the same. There was nothing even my super-critical appraisal could pin down as a fault in his basic technique though I found his flying bookish and stick-by-the-rulish; lacking in imaginative flair. By the time the craft had been shut down the tea was brewed and the sandwiches were all lain in rows.

  He marched importantly into lower control, his eyes eager on the sandwiches. But the clear image on the monitor caught his eye and he walked over to the system to have a look.

  “What’s this?” He queried grimly, before having a closer look. His hands played over the keys, obviating a need for the answer, “Lord, but we’re in trouble.” He told himself thoughtfully, “Cassandra, when did you take this fix? Just then on the test-flight; we’d better shape up a little; they’ve put on speed.”

  “I thought I’d test the seeker system, knowing they were out there, to test how accurate it was.” I told him carefully. He at once went to the flight record, going over it carefully and paying special attention to the fix itself.

  “The system is accurate enough.” He told me after accessing information from upper control. “But they’re not slowing down any more, as if they intended zapping then landing; they seem to be bent on zapping as quickly as possible, turning around and having another go if necessary then landing when things have quietened down a bit. We are going to have to work pretty hard to frustrate that little scheme.” He looked morbidly at his tea for a few moments, his mind distracted in thought.

  “That cunning old spider managed to get a message out to them; sometime between the time we found him and the time you gave him what-for.” The Doctor told me, his face bleak, “But we didn’t have him out of our sight for a moment, so how could he have done it?”

  I stood up my eyes suddenly sharp, remembering every detail of our encounter with the old spider. It came to me at length and I turned to look at the valise the Master had brought with him.

  If I was correct, then the aliens had already been given a fairly complete transcription of our language and the Master had kept his transmitter close by him, so the Doctor’s words would have been recorded by them. I pointed at the valise with my nose, saying nothing. The Doctor followed my gaze and uttered a curse under his breath.

  “Carefully.” I told him as he went over to the case, left standing where the dead Master had placed it. He had it opened in a moment, rifling through the contents until he turned out an ordinary enough two-way transmitter, small enough to fit in a fellow’s hand. It was busy transmitting onto a band fairly low on the range. It took the Doctor another few moments to discover where the Master had tied in a relay from lower control to the antennae on the roof of the roundhouse. He put the transmitter down beside him and sat himself down at the control desk. He typed busily away, his eyes glancing up every now and then as he looked at his results. I peered over his shoulder, wondering what he was up to.

  Soon an image flashed onto the screen, a huge and complex diagram that hovered there for barely a second before it vanished and the screen went blank. The Doctor was obviously pleased; he turned off the transmitter and recalled the image to the screen.

  “I got through.” He told me cheerfully but enigmatically, “This is a cross-section of their ship; one of them at least.” He returned his attention to the image, quickly dissecting and storing it, focussing on one view after another, one salient detail, the complex structure reduced swiftly to its component parts. I understood a good deal of what I saw; most of it was familiar space-ship sort of stuff, something about which every pilot ought to have a good idea. It showed such details as rocket compartments with reactor core, distribution of energetics, firing posts, all of it relatively old hat. There were a number of things which I didn’t understand; such as the nature of the reactor itself, something that obviously pleased the Doctor immensely.

  He purred over the map rather like a cat over the cream. His tea was hopelessly forgotten as were most of his sandwiches. This coup had obviously made his day. I studied the map with attention; it made sense to know what to fire at and what was likely to fire back, though I had the feeling that there would not be too much close-contact firing. The Wrens, after all, had a firing system and the X-lasers that would do enough damage right at their extreme range to decide the matter. And in the vacuum of space where there were no particles in the way to disrupt the X-laser beams, their extreme range was many millions of miles. It was entirely possible that we would not even get to see the aliens with the naked eye if things went according to plan. However I made a stern effort to read the layout and learn it; to the extent that I could find my way about aboard one of the craft if the need arose.

  “Hope for the best, plan for the worst.” I murmured to myself as I studied the map.

  “Good thinking.” The Doctor told me.

  “Shouldn’t we get hold of some extra people for back-up?” I asked him, now that I had his attention.

  “No.” He replied, firmly and positively. He gave me no reason then; he never did give me a reason. I remained silent, returning my eye to the screen, going over the details again, rehearsing and learning that map that strange fate had given over to us. At last he typed in his master-access code, not seeming the least bothered that I was still peering over his shoulder and had seen the sequence. He shut down the system and turned his attention back to his cold tea and somewhat bedraggled sandwich.

  “It’s a good thing you took a fix on them; that gave us a really meaningful breakthrough, Cassandra.” He told me as he polished off the last of his meal, “Thank you. Now we know what the odds are and how long we have to work with. They will be in range to strike within thirty-two days, rather than six weeks. I believe I shall beguile some of that time by designing those space-borne lasers we were on about. We have four days in which to get that done; not long, but we should make some sort of progress with it. In those four days, I want you to devote a good bit of time towards putting stores together for us for when we set off. We’ll be in space for about four week’s time and it’s no place to go hungry, let me tell you. As well as that, I want you to check the suits; three sets each, air cables and the recycling equipment. Get together a fair number of oxygen bottles as well, and at least three sets of minor parts for each craft, in case we need them. And to
ols.”

  He looked up at me, his eyes grim, “This is no picnic we’re going on, Cassandra; I want you to think very carefully before you decide you’re going to come with me. The second craft can just as well fly on autopilot.”

  “Why don’t you stay behind?” I retorted hotly, “In the middle of a nuclear inferno is no place for mistakes in piloting; and I don’t make mistakes.” I glared at him angrily for a moment, unable to say what I had actually intended to say, before I took up the satchel and walked quickly up to the stairs.

  He followed me in silence, making no effort to catch up with me. It was clear that my point had gone home; but he was still very unhappy about taking a risk with my life even with my consent. We regrouped in the kitchen, where Byrtle was making free with some bread that I had left out. He told me off very firmly when I shooed him away from the counter. I set about getting some more tea while the Doctor sat at the table, looking out of the window.

  He started speaking about his ideas for the space lasers, his voice showing that he was more or less talking ideas clear in his own mind. I left him to it, making the tea and placing a mug-full before him. I sat opposite him, watching him carefully, feeling the clasp of dread within battling with some other emotion; something I couldn’t identify. His words meant little to me: those that dealt with the actual fundamentals of the design, the lasers, the electronics and the nuclear aspects. The aerodynamics and rocketry I could offer advice about and that I did, pointing out any flaws in his reasoning that I could pick up. That pot of tea saw its end; so did the next, then the sun came in through the kitchen windows as the day grew old. He seemed to have most of the details tidily worked out and stored in his eidetic memory, ready to be cross-referenced against the parts that he had in storage. He finished his tea and stood up.

  “I’m going to finalise these plans, Cassandra; could you please let me know when supper is; just give me a buzz.” He nodded to me then left the room.

  “Min’ yer blerry business!” Byrtle sent after him in a pugnacious tone of voice.

  “My dear bird, that’s precisely what I intend to do.” The Doctor at once returned, leaving Byrtle dumbfounded. I chuckled at the exchange, finding an avocado pear to share with Byrtle. I turned my attention to the washing, both of clothes and dishes, while designing a suitable supper. I felt distinctly useless at that time, knowing that most of the difficult work I could not do, that most of the heavy labour presented me with distinct difficulties.

  In my mind I began an inventory of what we would need on our trip into the void. The list of food alone was rather long; I wasn’t going to take chances and had planned enough food for a fortnight. The other gear and equipment would fit into a rather small space, I realised; the Wrens were large craft and their single occupant, stores and all, would leave plenty of drifting room.

  The craft would be inertialess throughout the voyage so we would be weightless even under fierce acceleration. The Wren had been designed with long trips in mind so there were adequate facilities aboard. I planned my work carefully, knowing that I would be left rather to my own means for the next four days. The question of Byrtle bothered me, but beyond leaving out heaps of food and water, I really didn’t see how I could plan for him.

  I decided that leaving his window open was the other step I could take, and hang the weather. His window was behind the washing machine; I figured that it couldn’t do too much harm even if there was the grandmother of all tempests in the mean time. I sat and had a good think about supper, but once again my thoughts drifted along to the long and lonely hours on watch. Eight hours on, eight hours asleep; the two craft flying in concert. I made a note of that idea to mention to the Doctor should it have not occurred to him. The two craft both had autopilot, the difference being that Number One could override the controls of Number Three but not vice-versa. I would suggest that the dual system be fitted into Three as well, so I could keep an eye on Number One while the Doctor slept. I filed that thought away and had another go at getting a plan for supper together.

  In a few minutes I found myself writing a list of food to be packed into the craft; tins and fruit for the most part. At once I peered into the cold room, seeing what fruit there was. The tins I knew were all there, down in the storage in level one; there was no problem there. But I wasn’t too happy with the amount of fruit we had available. I decided to go on a fruit-scrounge at some time in the next few days. My mind then drifted onto the other equipment we would need. I wrote it all down on one comprehensive list for the Doctor’s perusal, dividing it up between the two craft. Once the list was drawn up to my satisfaction, I had another attempt to turn my mind to the matter of supper. It was not long after that bold and forthright resolution that I found myself unloading the washing machine of its burdens and trotting out with the load.

  Byrtle followed me down, squawking cheerfully and strafing me as I went down the stairs. I noticed that the window on the sixth level of the roundhouse was closed and light already showed from within for all the sun was cheerily drifting across the western sky. There was not much to be hung out; it was bare minutes before I was back in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and drumming my fingers, wondering to what I should next turn my mind.

  I went over my list once again, identifying each item and recalling where they were all stored. I mapped out a rough campaign to marshal the stores and get them down to the Nest.

  It occurred to me that it was going to be a lonely and unpleasant stint of work but I could see nothing for it. Things would be rather more unpleasant if we found ourselves short of food and air upstairs where, I reminded myself, there were no facilities or corner shops; up there only the enemy had access to extras, those extras they had packed who knew how long ago. I looked at the list again, sorting each item out according to where they were stored so that when the time came for them to be packed I could make the least number of trips. With that all worked out as best as I could hope for, I turned my attention once again to the matter of supper.

  I wondered what the Doctor was up to; how his plans were progressing. From what I knew of him, he would be well through the secondary planning stages by now; he would have everything mapped out and would be studying the plans for any flaws that needed weeding out of the system. He would have already taken an inventory of our stores to see if he actually did have the parts he wanted or what parts we did have, changing the design according to those limitations. I cast a glance at Byrtle; he was the one I was most worried about. If we left for a couple of weeks the bird would be rather hurt and upset; if he didn’t manage to fry himself in the microwave or something equally hazardous. I was beginning to feel that we would cope a lot better with our small troubles than Byrtle would with his impending loneliness.

  I looked at the poor bird; he ignored me completely, favouring his attention upon a biscuit he had stolen from my plate. With a small sigh I finished my tea and began to prowl around the kitchen, making a pile of everything that was to go from the stores here. I placed this at the head of the stairs where I wouldn’t miss it in the morning. Then, only then, did I find my mind sufficiently at ease to begin my labours on supper. I realised that I had done all that I could do that day, short of calling off supper entirely.

  Even then, however, I was not able to begin on that meal. I found myself brooding on what to cook while I was clearing the line of the dry clothes, dumping them into my basket. At that time the short winter’s day had come to its glorious end; the sunset had claimed, then forsaken the sky, leaving it to the lonely stars. Darkness fell around me in a misty blanket as I made my way up the stairs. But this darkness was not alone; it brought with it the veriest breath of winter and from behind me; from the north; a wind began to blow.

  Even out here, lost in the wide and warm Pacific, here in its northern reaches, the north wind was no good thing. Ever the omens man had burdened that wind with were fulfilled. I knew then that a storm was on its way; the air stank of snow and fierce breezes; and I wondered i
f it might last long enough to delay our departure.

  Not that a mere storm could prevent the Wrens from flying; but it could make it very dangerous to leave the Nest. I stared out to the north-west as if the malice of the storm would yet be visible through the gloam. There was nothing to be seen; for my eyes at least. I turned back to the stairs, passing swiftly over the balcony and back into the kitchen. I placed the washing by the counter beside the door then turned my mind fully upon the matter of supper.

  It occurred to me then that the Doctor may not be frightfully keen on leaving his work for something as trivial and meaningless as supper; I resolved to take a tray up to him. It would give me an opportunity to tell him the one or two details I had thought up, so he could work them into his plans if he felt they merited this attention. At once I got my act together, shaking supper down in fine time. I had a look at the signal on the comlink to see where he was, before loading the whole setup onto a large tray. I bade Byrtle a solemn farewell before dousing the lights and trotting cheerfully away to the gloomy height of the roundhouse.

  The Doctor looked up from his monitor as I came in, his face lighting up with a cheerful smile, “This is a welcome surprise, Cassandra; most thoughtful of you.” He helped me unload the heavy tray onto the only clear surface in the room before sitting down opposite me. I briefly outlined my list and what I had already assembled, before plunging into the matter of dual controls for Number Three so that I could guide the fleet while he slept. I expounded my idea of shifts and the danger of the two craft being under separate control at critical times during the battle that was going to follow when we drew line-sight on the aliens.