The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  The area was cleared of all carbineers as merchant officers collected the snowstorm of paper, cards, and fragments of machines amid the scattered remains of the prisoners. Carabas was in charge of the operation, and because he was trusted Rollins was posted as a guard and given an assault carbine. He walked amid scattered cards punched with holes. Littering the place were thousands of little wooden beads, some still strung on lengths of wire. The pedalframe was draped with a sheet while two dozen bodies went untouched, but the wounded were quickly taken away on stretchers, all with gags over their mouths.

  Rollins knew that guards watched the guards, and that he was sure to be searched. He picked up nothing, he touched nothing. Later that night he was told to take his black tram south of Forian, and it was stationed in a siding system that was still under construction. Nearby was a village named Somergate, a recreation reserve for officers with high security clearances. The local Yarronese had been completely cleared out—whether they had been shot or just sent packing Rollins never knew. He was to spend the winter there, sharing a cottage with three other drivers, who drank a lot of ale and played cards for looted coins. They were amiable enough and left him alone to read and think.

  At night he would lie awake in bed running through his mental logbook of messages sent in the peeping language.

  /4 October 3960, leaving Forian, going south/

  * calculor hurt in siege and lobe 9 destroyed

  # what about Forian

  * Forian stands attack failed

  # condelor airlord asking for victory date

  * tell condelor to go hump—never expose calculor again

  # what to tell condelor airlord

  * to save carbineers we will starve forian over winter (pause)

  # what about another attack

  * we lost 2117 carbineers killed and used all our shells

  # so many?

  * more but wounded not included (pause)

  # siege carbineers will have to be supplied over winter

  * we will send a tramload of gold to pay (pause)

  # airlord agrees but not happy

  It was obvious that the two signalers had thrown procedures to the winds in the panic after the loss of the black tram. In all his time as driver Rollins had never heard such plain speaking encoded as when he was driving out of Forian and listening to the peeping of the machine behind and above him. What was abundantly clear was that the Airlord Leovor the VII of Greater Bartolica had answered a proposal from Carabas almost instantly while over three hundred miles away in Condelor. What was equally obvious was that the black trams were somehow a single unit, which was almost alive.

  5 October 3960: Casper

  Even for the victors, there is death in warfare. War does not reward the just and virtuous any more than it punishes the unjust and evil. There are simply victors, vanquished, and the dead. A week after the battle above Seminoe Pass the victors gathered at the Casper wingfield to honor the known and presumed dead of both sides. The day was overcast and windy, and although light rain spattered the mourners from time to time, the chill on the air meant that the end of the flying season was not far away.

  “This youth Serjon, these battles, they all say the same thing,” Sartov mused as he stood watching the field heralds prepare the death pennants that were about to be burned. “We are far better in the air.”

  Fieldmajor Gravat was beside him, adjusting his pennant sash. The cold wind tugged at their clothing as it blustered across the Casper wingfield, and even the honor guard of gunwings was being tied and pegged down by the guildsmen.

  “True, they lose three, four, even five wings for every one of ours,” Gravat replied.

  “On the ground their forces maul ours with a tenth as many carbineers, but not at Seminoe Pass. There they were far from any tramway, and there we stopped them.”

  “The Bartolicans have Callwalkers among us to spy and cause mayhem. Could it be that they are somehow tied to the tramways?”

  It was not an idea that had crossed Sartov’s mind, and he thought it over as lines of guildsmen came marching through the light rain to stand behind the glittering figures of the air carbineers.

  “Spying and sabotage would be useless without a strong fighting force that can sweep in and seize control,” Sartov finally decided. “No, there is something more than Callwalkers here. Where am I going wrong, Fieldmajor, what am I missing?”

  “Bartolican tactical control is nothing less than inspired. True, our people have made blunders and had disasters, but credit to the Bartolican merchant commanders cannot be denied. It is as if they see everything like the players at a chessboard.”

  Sartov liked the analogy and stood considering it as the spots of rain continued to patter down on him and a distant brass band played a march for the dead. Chess was all tactics, bluff, and logic, yet chess was also the ability to peer godlike down on a diorama. Both sides had scout sailwings to gather information, yet the Bartolicans made better use of what they learned and their forces were always optimized at any battle—except for Seminoe Pass.

  “Are you wondering if the Callwalkers may be doing more than spying and sabotage?” asked Gravat.

  “I am not wondering, Fieldmajor, I am certain. Come now, time to honor the dead.”

  One by one Sartov fed the pennants of the dead to the flames of boost spirit in the wingfield’s torch of remembrance.

  “As the flames of compression spirit took you to the clouds, so now do the flames of compression spirit take you back to the clouds,” the chaplain intoned over the torch as each pennant burned. The commoner flyers were represented by a name written on a strip of parachute silk, but they were given the same time and deference. Finally the pennants of the Bartolicans were burned. A squad of carbineers fired a volley into the air and the patrol sailwing swooped low over the ranks of Yarronese mourners and the Bartolican wardens and flyers who had survived being shot down. A trumpeter played “Dirge of the Warden”; then the chaplain led prayers for a quick end to the war.

  As Bronlar was walking back to the guild tents she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Chancellor Sartov approaching.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked as he caught up with her and steered her toward a line of gunwings. “I hear you have a cold.”

  “My head is clear, Chancellor,” she replied briskly, as close to being at attention as she could be while still being at ease. “I can ascend without hurt to my eardrums.”

  “That’s good, we need you in the air. Two wardens are on your tally of vanquished wings, and you are a worthy match for anyone over Yarron.”

  “Thank you.”

  Serjon was standing beside one of the gunwings, shivering and miserable as he pulled a greatcoat over his flight jacket. Fieldmajor Gravat and several officers and wardens were waiting with him.

  “This is Flockleader Serjon Feydamor,” said Gravat as the Chancellor and Bronlar stopped before them.

  “They call you Warden Killer, you have had twenty-five victories in clear air war duels,” said Sartov.

  “I have been lucky,” began Serjon.

  “Pah! Nobody has twenty-five lucky victories. Serjon, Bronlar, we should honor your skill and bravery, we should parade you before our weary flyers and carbineers to give them heart. The truth is that we are fighting for our very survival. We need you up there and fighting or in the guild tents teaching other flyers.”

  “Ah, very sensible, Chancellor,” said Bronlar.

  “The Bartolican prisoners complained about the silks of commoners being burned before those of the Bartolican wardens. I ordered that they be loaded with chains and be made to walk from Casper to Sheridan with the refugees.”

  “Appropriate and fair,” replied Bronlar.

  “Now I have orders for you, Semme Bronlar Jemarial and Sair Serjon Feydamor. This morning a coded order was flown in by pigeon from Forian. It was from the Airlord of Yarron himself. He wants the services of our two finest flyers to get something out of the capit
al. I have chosen you two.”

  Serjon and Bronlar glanced at each other.

  “With respect, sair, others have more victories over wardens than me,” responded Bronlar.

  “But you weigh very little, Semme Bronlar, and your load of fuel and cargo will be heavy. Serjon will provide you an escort in his gunwing.”

  Bronlar was slightly taken aback that her weight seemed more important than her worth to the Chancellor, but she let it pass.

  “With respect, Chancellor, Forian is under siege and aswarm with enemy sailwings and gunwings,” Serjon now pointed out. “A whole flock of gunwings might do better than two.”

  “A flock would attract a lot of unwelcome attention. Two is better. I have arranged for a sailwing to be stripped down to a single tank and pair of reaction guns. Say the word and I shall have your pennant painted on the nose, Bronlar. Well? I want volunteers, even though I want the best.”

  A Calltower bell began to ring in the distance, signaling that a Call would be there in fifteen minutes. Guildsmen began to untie five of the patrol sailwings, and disconsolate flyers trudged out of their tents to prepare to ascend into the cold and turbulent sky.

  Serjon shrugged and spread his gloved hands. “When do we leave?”

  “Before the paint is dry.”

  Bronlar gasped.

  “You want me to fly in a sailwing that my guildsmen have not checked?” she said. “The insult to them would be profound.”

  “The guildsmen doing the work are mine, and when you are in the air I shall go to your guildmasters and tender my personal apologies.”

  “The weather is not exactly optimal,” Serjon pointed out.

  “You are free to decline,” said Sartov.

  “No, no, I, ah, just like people to know, ah, what they may not know—but probably do know.”

  It was only ten minutes later that one sailwing and one gunwing with Yarronese markings ascended for the trip to Forian. The winds were difficult at first, but the weather improved as they flew south. The Laramie Mountains rolled below them for a time, then they followed the tramway rails to the besieged city, flew over the ancient walls, and aligned on the massive towers of the palace. They landed without incident, but although a crew of guildsmen rushed out to meet them and drag the wings to shelter, there was no official on hand except for the adjunct and some guildmasters.

  “What are we to do now?” Bronlar asked the adjunct.

  “Attend court, Semme. A cloak, swordrig, and feather-drew are awaiting you at the palace entrance, and you must present the credentials that Chancellor Sartov gave you—but you are not needed yet, Semme. Court was only called when your sailwing landed.”

  “And me?” asked Serjon.

  “Why, you are the escort flockleader!” declared the adjunct as if Serjon had uttered the silliest words imaginable. “You must keep watch over the sailwing with these guildsmen.”

  Serjon shrugged, folded his arms, and stared intently at Bronlar’s sailwing until the adjunct muttered something about commoners and went away. Guildsmen refueled the wings and installed a wicker seat where the central tanks had been in Bronlar’s aircraft.

  “It is a fact that wingtanks get hit six times more often than central tanks,” said Bronlar.

  “And you only have wingtanks,” Serjon pointed out on cue. “Does this worry you?”

  “Yes.”

  A liaisory arrived, read Bronlar’s credentials, and led her away through the shell-pocked gardens to the palace itself. The place was already bleak with autumn, and cart cannons were firing in the distance every minute or so. The liaisory told her to wait in an antechamber just outside the throne hall, then entered and was soon lost from sight amid the crowd. A middle-aged man walked up from behind Bronlar and stood waiting with her. He had only one arm, but wore the pennant sash of a warden.

  “I only have to do this once more,” he said, twirling a large, silver circlet on his wrist. “Are you Bronlar Jemarial?”

  “Yes. Ah, are you another liaisory?” she replied tentatively.

  “Oh sorry, I’m Virtrian the Twelfth, Airlord of Yarron,” he said, extending his hand, the circlet of office still dangling from his wrist.

  Bronlar goggled. His hand was vertical, not horizontal, so he probably meant it to be shaken, not kissed. She shook his hand.

  “I apologize, I’m sorry for not recognizing you,” she stammered, waving her hands like the propellers of a regal.

  “Why? The coronation medallions are not a good likeness. So, you are the Bronlar who shot down sixteen Bartolican wings. You must be good.”

  “I, ah, survive well, and ah, just a bit more.”

  “Yarron should follow your example. Now there’s a good phrase. To survive, Yarron must do more than merely survive. I’m planning to make you a warden, Semme Bronlar. Does that please you?”

  “A warden!” Bronlar’s thoughts boiled for a moment. “The intention pleases me beyond words, your, er, Airlord, sair—”

  “Virtrian is my name. Lordship is the casual term of address for nobles.”

  “Ah, Lordship, I … would rather you did not. I’m sorry—”

  “Explain please, oh and please address me as Saireme Airlord out in court or the heralds will get all twitchy.”

  Bronlar giggled for a moment, and the Airlord pressed his lips together as if holding back a smile.

  “Lordship, the air defense of the realm has been carried by Air Carbineers in the fighting of the weeks past. They are a mix of wardens, squires, and flyers, but they are mainly commoner flyers. If you make me a warden, you honor me but that’s all. If you grant me an insignia as a commoner flyer, you establish royal favor for all your loyal Yarronese commoner flyers.”

  He placed the silver circlet on his head, then grasped the stump of his left arm and stood staring at her.

  “Where were you when I was appointing my Centrium of Advisers, Semme Bronlar? You are loyal, brave, honest, and intelligent: I have never seen all four of those virtues in one person before. Are there other girls in the Air Carbineers?”

  “Only two, and three in training.”

  “Sartov is a clever man, that is why …” His expression was downcast for a moment, but he quickly brightened. “Shall we go in now, together? Take my arm and we—no, that would imply that we are to be engaged and we hardly know each other. Tell what, put your right hand on your sword pommel and keep your left out like this for me to hold. That is processional form for my defense advisers, you see—and take off that stupid cloak and featherdrew hat. Why dress as a mere courtier when you are a warrior? Be proud of the gold threadwork on that flight jacket, girl, put your chest out, raise your nose into the air, and be superior!”

  Numb with astonishment, Bronlar walked into the throne hall with the Airlord of Yarron. He did not lead her to the place indicated by the liaisory, or even to the arc of advisers, but up the steps to stand on the right of his throne. He sat down, slumped weary but alert before his court, and made a gesture to the presiding herald. Bronlar stood with her feet apart and her hand on the sword, staring intently at a pennon over the doors at the other end of the throne hall and trying to pretend that the place was empty.

  “Attend the Airlord,” the herald cried out clearly after banging his ornate mace three times on the floor.

  The Airlord did not stand, but stayed slouched in the throne looking as if he had had three hours’ sleep in as many days. At last he spoke.

  “Loyal subjects of the dominion, the citizens of Yarron, I wish to introduce my newest military adviser, Air Carbineer Bronlar Jemarial, who with sixteen air victories is one of Yarron’s greatest living air warriors. Before we entered, Semme Bronlar gave me these words for you and for all loyal citizens of Yarron: To survive, Yarron needs to do more than merely survive.”

  He let the words sink in, and allowed the court scribe to catch up before going on.

  “Accordingly, I have decided to make two pronouncements. First, all flyers will have royal favor henceforth. The
y have been fighting with dedication and valor, and they are all that stand between Yarron and oblivion. Air Carbineer Bronlar Jemarial, I grant you an insignia: crossed feline claws, argent—Bronlar, would you like the white rose of my house between the claws?”

  He got it wrong, the claws on my engine’s cowling are red, I’ll have to have them repainted, screamed a voice within Bronlar’s head. “I would be honored, Saireme Airlord,” Bronlar replied crisply, staring straight ahead.

  “Note that down in whatever the correct wording may be, herald. Secondly … as your Airlord I have failed to drive back the Bartolican invaders at nearly every battle, and now their cart cannons bombard Forian’s very walls even as I speak.”

  From anyone else the words would have been treason, and there were stifled gasps from some of the courtiers.

  “Accordingly, I shall now board a sailwing and be flown to Casper by Semme Jemarial. There I shall abdicate in favor of Chancellor Sartov. Sartov presided over our victory against Dorak, and has formed the Air Carbineers that have slashed the cream of Bartolican wardenry out of the skies and trained the carbineers who halted the Bartolicans at Seminoe Pass. He is the leader that Yarron needs in this black hour. I shall request that I be allowed to return here as City Chancellor of Forian. My intention had been to surrender Forian to the besiegers, to avoid the obscenity of slaughter, violation, pillage, and vandalism that marked the fall of Median. Semme Jemarial’s words brought me to my senses, however: To survive, Yarron needs to do more than merely survive. I shall advise Airlord Sartov that I am willing to lead Forian’s resistance against the Bartolicans, and bleed them white for as long as possible. If my citizens are willing to stand with me, we may yet save Yarron. Herald, close proceedings.”

  So that’s why he was so offhanded and casual, Bronlar realized. The ashen-faced herald banged his mace on the floor again.

  “The words of the Airlord Virtrian have been spoken,” he said in a steady but higher-pitched voice.