The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  In Condelor a very odd dispatch arrived from Governor Stanbury of East Region. He reported sending his merchant carbineers into Yarron and Montras in pursuit of several large outlaw gangs, and that his men were then engaged by local carbineers who were protecting the outlaws. Blaming the Montrassians and Yarronese for sending outlaws to plunder Bartolica, he then sent his entire force of carbineers into the battle, along with the wardens of his personal guard. Within an hour of this dispatch arriving at the court another was flown in that declared Montras fallen and under Bartolican rule, along with a slab of western Yarron almost to the edge of the Red Desert and bigger than East Region. Stanbury appealed for wardens and squires to be sent to help secure and administer the territories that he had liberated from outlaw rule.

  Throughout Mounthaven it was the wording and legal letter of any declaration that carried most weight Phrased as an appeal for wardens to help keep order, Stanbury’s dispatch produced the perfect reaction. The confused young Airlord of Bartolica sent a hundred wardens and their guildsmen to assist Stanbury: “In any fashion that seems helpful,” as he put it. The Bartolican gunwings and sailwings quickly appeared, shooting at Yarronese steam trams crossing the Red Desert and destroying any sailwings that they encountered. Faced with such provocation, the wardens of the western Yarronese estates finally took matters into their own hands and responded by sending their own gunwings up to challenge the unchivalric invaders. A deadly ballet of unsupervised air combat was played out time and again over western Yarron, with both sides considering the others to be common and unchivalric rogues and thus worthy of no mercy.

  Serjon had actually been flying near Kemmerer when the main column of steam trams began pouring east, followed by a long line of galley carts. He returned to Opal at once, reported what he had seen to the adjunct, and was gratified to see the Jannian squire sent up to investigate. He made a wide sweep over western Yarron, and reported the incredible news that the entire town of Southfort was on fire. Bartolican steam trams were crammed along the line north, while groundfire from around Southfort was so intense that he was unable to approach close enough for a proper view. The young warden did not believe what either Serjon or the squire had reported, and which Serjon scarcely believed himself.

  Farther east, some Yarronese carbineers commandeered a steam tram and went south, blasting the tramway at quarter-mile intervals. A Bartolican armored tram met them after only five miles and blew the Yarronese tram to matchwood. Bartolican sailwings droned overhead, taking relays to fly south and drop message tubes for those on the ground and return tubes to the black trams. The perfect coordination of the Bartolicans defied belief: they acted as if they were part of a single, huge organism and always struck the weakest Yarronese positions in full strength.

  At last the warden of the Jannian estate was convinced that action was required, and he met with his squire to rough out tactics. Whatever his faults and inexperience, Ricmear Jannian was decisive when he made up his mind. A “duress response” could be invoked when air duels were required in undeclared and unrecorded conflicts, and Jannian attached a proclamation to the estate’s pennant pole stating that this was the case.

  The wingfield adjunct found Serjon with his father and Glasken in the steam machinery sheds.

  “Suit up, Serjon, you have to fly in a formal war duel,” the adjunct cried from the door, then he rushed on without another word.

  “Why don’t we just strike back undeclared as the Bartolicans do?” demanded Serjon as Feydamor and Glasken helped him into his flying leathers and ornate flight jacket.

  “Because we’re winning!” said Feydamor triumphantly. “The Bartolicans have trespassed on a massive scale, they have not offered chivalric combat until this very day, and their carbineers have despoiled Yarronese property without wardenly redress being due to them. This confirms the worst that we have ever said about the Bartolicans.”

  “No offense intended, sair,” said Glasken, “but where I come from a mayorate would be history if it was in a position like Yarron’s.”

  “Barbarian talk,” snapped Feydamor. “This is civilization, we fight our wars without destroying property or involving the innocent.”

  “As I see it, Sair Jeb, the Bartolicans are fighting this war very much like us barbarians, and if this is a barbarian-style war then Yarron is up to its earlobes in emu shit.”

  “Sair Glasken, watch your tongue, you’re talking about matters of honor very close to the heart of the Yarronese nobility. If you cannot maintain respect for the dignity of this conflict, then you can get off this estate.”

  “With the way things are looking out there, Jeb, I have a feeling that things might be healthier in the woods anyway.”

  Glasken walked out quickly as Serjon finished getting into his flight gear.

  “Such unseemly talk before your first taste of the honor of war, pah, this is not the way I wanted it, Serjon,” said Feydamor as they walked out into the sunlight.

  “But a lot of his talk made sense,” said Serjon. “I’ve spoken with the other patrol flyers, they said that the skies above all western Yarron are filled with Bartolican wings.”

  “Serjon! My son, you clamored for years to step into a cockpit, but now you turn coward as soon as you have a chance to fight!”

  Serjon bristled at the word “coward” and chose not to reply for the sake of not making things any worse.

  “Whatever the case, you will have no more than your sailwing peers to deal with, that is the rule of war and chivalry,” Feydamor concluded.

  Serjon’s mother and sisters were waiting on the path of departure, the point past which only combatants and guild crews were allowed once a conflict was declared. All but Kallien had a bunch of embroidered ribbons for him to wear on his sleeve. Very soon I could be dead and they will all be here to sorrow for me, he thought as he embraced each in turn. He made for the pennant pole where the adjunct was briefing the other four flyers. Three sailwings and two gunwings were nearby, their compression engines warming up and the armorers frantically strapping reaction guns onto the mounting racks of the sailwings. The third gunwing was under repair. A sailwing trainer taxied past as Serjon was attaching his colors to his arm, and Bronlar called to him from the open canopy.

  “Serjon, look here!” she shouted.

  “You’re flying? As a combatant?”

  “The warden can’t spare anyone for dispatch flights. I pointed out that I have a flyer’s license and accreditation, so suddenly he decided that I could be useful after all. I was classified as an ancillary, which means combat-capable but not combatant. I’ve got guns, Serjon, and live ammunition!”

  Serjon was relieved that she would be safe, but to say as much would have been a hurtful insult.

  “What mission are you flying?”

  “Liaison to Median. What about you?”

  “Duress response above Montras. Challenge to clear air war duel with sailwing support—that’s me.”

  “Really? Which wardens have challenged?”

  “I can’t tell you anything. I’m already sworn under the warden’s flock command. Look after yourself, and make sure you come back. I’ll try to come back too.”

  Bronlar beamed back at him then closed her canopy. As she ascended from the flightstrip Serjon joined the warden, his squire and flyers at the pennant pole. He handed his pennant plaque to the adjunct, who hung it on the pole below all the others.

  “The latest scout reported armed Bartolican sailwings making strafing runs against steam trams in Montras while their gunwings patrolled overhead,” the adjunct was reporting.

  “How many gunwings?” asked Ricmear Jannian.

  “Fifteen, young sair, and twenty-five armed sailwings.”

  The warden considered. A fight against hopeless odds did not daunt him so much as the prospect of an unseen and unacknowledged fight against hopeless odds.

  “At my declaration, we fly south,” said the young warden. “Ceras will fly at my upper back, and sailwings will
attack sailwings while we challenge the Bartolican gunwings for the sun height. Thank you, adjunct. To your wings now.”

  The adjunct went with Serjon to his sailwing to finish his briefing. The fueler was checking the level in his tank.

  “How much is in our tanks?” asked Serjon as he pulled on his fur-lined leather cap embroidered with gold thread.

  “Two cruising hours, Sair Serjon. The Warden wants the weight kept down for better handling in duels.”

  “Then fill mine, I may be in the air a long time.”

  “The warden will read of it in tonight’s report.”

  “Adjunct, the warden will be dead within an hour. Did anyone explain to our sixteen-year-old warden that the whole of West Yarron is falling out of the sky, that the Bartolicans are breaking every protocol that ever got penned on paper?”

  “Ceras tried to tell him, sair, but he is intent on leading a flock into a war duel. The governor’s default orders were to fly to the Green River wingfield and assemble a united flock with all the other West Yarron wardens, but only at the discretion of each warden.”

  “So, this is at his discretion,” said Serjon bleakly. “When I was six I never thought that I would fly, when I was sixteen I never thought I would wear a flyer’s jacket, and now I’m nineteen and I don’t think I’ll get back from my first mission.”

  “The tanks are full now, Sair Serjon,” said the fueler.

  “Grats, I’ll strap in now. Adjunct, what are the current default orders for returning if the flock breaks up?”

  “Home, then Green River wingfield. Now try to return.”

  “Be wary, adjunct.”

  “We on the estates are safe, but try to win: owing fealty to Bartolicans would be very galling.”

  Serjon was last into the air, and he joined up with the other sailwings as they flew in a curve that took them southwest to Southfort on the border of Montras, the tiny mountain dominion. Mountains passed below, throwing up thermals and buffeting currents. The sailwings tossed and pitched as they flew well below the two Yarron gunwings. Probably odds of eight to one, Serjon thought over and over.

  The Bartolican wardens had not expected a response from any of the nearby Yarronese wingfields, and any unified response had been forestalled by the invasion of Bartolican carbineers. The Yarronese flock headed straight for Evanston, the Montras capital. The Evanston wingfield was only a half hour from Opal, and to the southwest. The warden dipped his gunwing’s left wing three times, the right once, the left once, the right twice more: Attack wingfield. Skirmish order. The sailwings were on their own from now on.

  The little capital of the mountain dominion appeared ahead as the three sailwings came in abreast. The warden swooped over the palace and dropped a dispatch capsule while trailing twin streamers of red smoke. By protocol a war duel was now declared, with the Montras royalty as the witnesses. The flock of sailwings had meantime arced around to come out of the sun above the occupied wingfield. A regal was in the middle of the flightstrip and well into its ascent run as Serjon left the staging squares, guild tents, and buildings to his two companions. Everything had Bartolican markings and colors, the tents, the pennant poles, the parked gunwings … and the regal that was lumbering into the air. Serjon banked on a wingtip and began to lose height alarmingly as he turned to attack. He leveled and closed head on, firing into the regal as its wingcaptain fired its strafing guns. Incandescent rounds streamed past Serjon’s sailwing as he fired steadily into the left compression engine—then he was past it and climbing in a wide curve out over the Montras capital.

  As he returned to the wingfield Serjon could see that the three patrol gunwings above Montras had engaged the two Yarronese gunwings. Ricmear had attacked from above in a fast dive and caught a Bartolican gunwing that was now trailing smoke and losing height. Ceras was flying behind, covering, but the two other Bartolican wardens had already broken off to climb and come around. A Yarronese sailwing came in low over the wingfield, strafing, but failed to pull out of its shallow dive and exploded through a line of five Bartolican sailwings. The other sailwing from Opal flew over the carnage, trailing flames from one of its own wingtanks. Back above the city a Yarronese gunwing was spinning down out of control while two enemy aircraft engaged the other. Ceras was still flying, but the warden was down. On the wingfield the regal had recovered almost miraculously to circle the wingfield and try to land. Just then a gunwing roared off the dispersal track and onto the flightstrip, but the regal was barely under control and descending fast.

  The crippled regal landed on top of the gunwing, crushing it, and the two fully fueled aircraft exploded in a lurid fireball that smeared a tongue of flame and smoke all down the flightstrip.

  “There is your victory, Sair Warden,” Serjon said aloud.

  Somehow he did not feel responsible for the deaths. Now he began to climb a little. He had followed orders and strafed the wingfield in his unarmored sailwing. One parachute was descending over Evanston, probably Ceras’, but there were still two Bartolican gunwings in the sky. Serjon turned east for home, hoping not to be noticed. This time luck was with him. The patrolling Bartolican gunwings stayed at their assigned area instead of pursuing, and the fire on the main flightstrip prevented any other gunwings from ascending to chase him.

  For half an hour he flew low among the mountains, preferring to chance the thermals rather than the clear air where the Bartolicans were in such overwhelming numbers. To his surprise he found himself over Middle Junction, and realized that he had gone far off course. He noted with satisfaction that his tanks were still over two-thirds full as he turned northwest for Opal. Off to the south he noticed four sailwings flying roughly parallel to his direction. High above was a single gunwing, but unlike the unconcerned sailwings it was already turning to intercept him. He’s coming to check, he cannot see my markings and colors at this distance, thought Serjon.

  Serjon boosted his engine and scrambled for height; then the gunwing’s warden realized what colors were on the sailwing and came in for a fast pass. Serjon did a tight turn as bullets riddled his left wing and the diving gunwing hurtled down past him. He was in luck, as the outer wingtanks were empty. Serjon flew on as if undamaged.

  The gunwing climbed as Serjon climbed, seeking greater height before coming around for another pass. The warden had assumed that the Yarronese sailwing was carrying armor, and that was his downfall. The greater lift of Serjon’s sailwing meant that it could match the gunwing’s rate of climb at higher altitudes and as the air thinned. He closed. The warden could have escaped in a fast dive, but he was intent on a quick and easy kill. His gunwing wove into a space where Serjon was already firing and a line of hits walked across the gunwing’s fabric and through the cockpit’s canopy. This time there was no dramatic ball of flames; the gunwing just climbed until it stalled, then dropped into a spin and fell toward the mountains. Serjon stayed high but followed its progress until there was a distant flash on a bare ridge.

  For a moment Serjon felt an elation that was little short of sexual. This time his guns had not just caused an accident, they had killed. By now the four sailwings were directly below. Serjon dived, raking the trailing sailwing and dropping it out of the flock trailing thin, greyish smoke. By the time he came around again the remaining sailwings had broken formation and scattered, so Serjon chose one that was flying almost directly south and set off after it. After a twenty-five-minute chase he overhauled the sailwing, whose flyer was so terrified that he bailed out as Serjon was closing in. The Yarronese novice fired a short burst into the sailwing and left it falling in flames as he turned north again.

  As Serjon flew for Opal he wondered what he was going to tell the families of the four flockmates who would not be returning. Guilt had by now replaced the elation of his first kills. Five wings, and as many as seven men killed. The flock had nearly been wiped out, even though they had destroyed three enemy wings for every one lost. After nearly three hours in the air he caught sight of the river, then the tramw
ay, and finally the Opal estate itself. Before landing he flew back over the tramway, which was packed with steam trams chugging east. The sidings were jammed with empty trams waiting a chance to return west.

  Minutes later he was over Opal’s wingfield again, and as he circled the wingfield Serjon noticed that another sailwing had survived Ricmear’s attack on Evanston and had already landed. There was a lot of its fabric burned away from one wing, but the fire had died before doing enough structural damage to—Abruptly Serjon caught himself and did a quick scan of the sky. It was clear, but the lapse of attention could have cost him his life. Now he noticed that the estate seemed deserted. He circled twice more, wondering why nobody was sending up flares and why there were no guildsmen crowded about the other sailwing.

  Suddenly too weary to think and beyond caring about the absence of guildsmen, Serjon landed. As he taxied to the maintenance area near the guildhalls he noted with some anxiety that nobody came out to greet him. He unbuckled his straps, checked the clip in his Raddisan spring action, and released the safety catch. As a precaution he left the compression engine running as he got out, pistol in hand. There were eleven holes in the fabric of his wing.

  Serjon walked over to the other sailwing. As he drew close he saw that the canopy had been shattered, and beneath it Kumiar’s blood was everywhere. The flyer was gone.

  The wingfield’s buildings were intact, the pennant pole still had the plaques, everything seemed to have a surreal normality about it. Serjon almost convinced himself to switch off his engine, but even as he reached into the cockpit something made him pause. It was almost as if he wanted a reason to leave, yet … perhaps there had been some horrendous crash not far away and everyone had left to help. Aware that he had not eaten for a long time, Serjon left his compression engine still idling and went across to the guild refectory hall. The door was open, and swinging in a light breeze. Serjon took a step inside, then stopped, one foot in midair.