The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  The Airlord now stood up and unpinned his cloak, letting it fall to the floor to reveal a flight jacket. The jacket was a blaze of paisley swirls in gold thread on purple, with dark green jade bullets lining the shoulder greaves. The thin circlet of office remained on his head as he descended the steps with Bronlar. As they stood waiting at the base of the throne dais the crowded throne hall was in absolute silence. The scribe appeared moments later with a scroll of proceedings, wax was poured, and the Airlord impressed his ring onto his final decree. He then marched from the throne hall with Bronlar beside him. No others followed.

  “I apologize for putting you to so much trouble, Semme, but this is the best I can do for Yarron.”

  Bronlar was too astonished to reply.

  “Back there, was that a sensible decision?” he asked as they emerged into the open air.

  “I—I am a guildmaster’s daughter, and you are an airlord. Your decisions are to be followed, not questioned.”

  “But were you pleased?”

  “You acted with bravery and wisdom, Saireme—ah, Lordship Virtrian. That pleased me.”

  The guildsmen fluttered about the Airlord as they arrived at the wingfield. Bronlar quickly went up to Serjon, who was standing by his gunwing, and explained what had happened in court.

  “That should have been you in there, being honored by the Airlord,” she said as she took his hand. Serjon did not seem concerned, but he flinched at the touch of her cold fingers.

  “I’m not good in crowds. Besides, I spoke with the guildmaster of the ground crew while you were gone. The Airlord asked for you in particular.”

  “And I know why. He was using me to humiliate his own nobles and courtiers. I’m a girl as well as a commoner flyer, I made the perfect rod to beat them with. In a way I was insulted, Serjon.”

  “You’re the Airlord’s weapon, whether flying a sailwing or standing around in court,” said Serjon, still seeming to genuinely not care. “I’m touched that you thought of me, but really I think that the Airlord chose wisely.”

  “But Serjon—”

  “But nothing. Let’s plan how to get back to Casper alive.”

  The weather was no better on the way back, but Bronlar and Serjon successfully flew the Airlord to Casper wingfield by the evening. Sartov was made Airlord of Yarron in the City Chancellor’s palace, and next morning Bronlar and Serjon flew the abdicant back to Forian.

  Chancellor Virtrian went on to lead the capital’s defense through the autumn, winter, and early spring. The five months of desperate, bloody struggle stalled and weakened the entire Bartolican advance in eastern Yarron, and when the Bartolican carbineers finally broke through the battered, ruined city’s walls it was no glittering prize for all their trouble.

  5 October 3960: Wind River

  Maesterrin had not been allowed to sleep for more than minutes since he had been taken prisoner in Casper. It might have been ten days ago, it might have been fifteen, it might have even been a month: he had no way of knowing. He had been gagged and hooded before being put aboard a regal and flown west. He knew it to be west, because aviads had a birdlike magnetic sense that allowed them to “feel” direction. Maesterrin had counted slowly for the whole trip, and he knew the cruising speed of regals. From all this he estimated that he was somewhere just east of the Wind River Range and north of the Red Desert. This would be of use when he escaped. When he escaped. Like all the aviad infiltrators he held humans in contempt and had no doubt that he would quickly outwit them.

  He was proved wrong. There was the scent of pine trees and recent rain on the air when the regal landed, and the walk to his prison was 1,670 steps northeast of the wingfield. He was untied, changed into a light bushfiber smock, then tied again. At last his blindfold was removed. The room was cold, but brightly lit by high lamps. An interrogator entered, a well-spoken but thickset man wearing a tight-fitting knitted hood. His eyes were blue, Maesterrin could see, that.

  The Yarronese knew his name, place in the tramway system, and details since arriving at Casper. They also knew that he was what they called a Callwalker. They had somehow worked out the hair test—or there was a traitor among his comrades. Maesterrin refused to even acknowledge his name at first, but the Yarronese were masters at applying pain. A slight squeeze to his elbow would send a thunderflash of agony through his body, and they could do worse with his knees. He eked out information, some true, some false. The interrogator took it all down: how he came from north of Alberhaven, where he had grown up in a lost tribe of Callwalkers. When they had wandered into Alberhaven in search of new hunting grounds the humans there had captured them, then convinced them to become part of a scheme to conquer Yarron in return for gunwing technology from Bartolica.

  Maesterrin ate his meager meals of watery soup and dried fruit straight from the bowl, as his hands remained tied at all times. His legs were untied, so that he could visit the privy pot in one corner at will. It was seldom emptied.

  One night—or day—the interrogator came in with a clipboard and left the door open behind him. Maesterrin wondered if security was growing slack, but when the interrogator took him by the arm and led him outside he saw that three very alert carbineers were waiting to guard him.

  “We are disappointed with you, Fras Maesterrin,” said the interrogator as they walked.

  Maesterrin flinched at the form of address from the other side of the world. He pressed his lips together as the interrogator went on.

  “Little of what you have told us bears any resemblance to the truth, but that is of no concern to us. We have most of the truth already, thanks to your friends.”

  The aviad had been warned about such tactics in basic training, and Captain Harmondes had drilled his squad over and over in interrogation methods. What they could understand they could resist. The Yarronese were splitting up the prisoners, and trying to turn them against each other. Some would break, but the others could not afford to verify the betrayals of their weaker comrades. They emerged from the starkly bare internment area of the building into a warmer corridor, with carpets on the floors and tapestries on the walls. There was darkness beyond the windows, so it was night. There were guards here too, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. The scent of roast bird was on the air, and onions, and herbs. They passed through a heavily guarded door into an apartment whose table contained the remains of a rich and elegant dinner. Even the cooling scraps made Maesterrin’s mouth water.

  “You disappoint us, Fras Maesterrin, we are only trying to be friendly—and thorough,” said the interrogator, who now stepped behind Maesterrin and tied a gag firmly over his mouth.

  A carbineer unlocked yet another door, but this one was lit by only a dim, blue light within. The interrogator guided the aviad in, and the guard locked the door behind them. There were two comfortable chairs facing a drawn curtain.

  “The window behind this is triple glazed, so no sound can pass. A one-way mirror faces the, ah, subjects on the other side, however.”

  He drew the curtain. There, in a brightly lit bedchamber, Captain Harmondes sprawled naked as a woman straddled him, moving rhythmically, her breasts brushing his chest with erect nipples. Maesterrin sat up with a muffled squark, his eyes wide. She had wavy, unbound brown hair that bounced like long springs as she moved.

  “We don’t really need your information at all, Fras Maesterrin, we already have more than you probably know. This place is actually a breeding center for little Callwalkers—or aviads, as you call yourselves.”

  Harmondes reached his arms around the woman and held her close, then rolled over on top of her. Maesterrin wanted to close his eyes, yet could not help but watch.

  “It would never do to have uncooperative Callwalker fathers, I mean what woman wants memories of some tortured, pathetic enemy as the father of her child? It would be rape of the father, nothing more and nothing less. You will never go free, Fras Maesterrin, but each captured Callwalker is invited to join this program by proving his goodwill toward us. That pr
oof is full disclosure of all that you know.”

  Maesterrin watched the scene beyond the one-way window. His captain had considerable endurance, in spite of the heavy meal that the couple had enjoyed. The interrogator explained that each woman stayed with the Callwalkers for three days, at her most fertile time of month.

  “There is currently a backlog, but Harmondes has been good enough to do some, ah, matinee work to keep the program on schedule. Your help would be appreciated by all concerned.”

  Maesterrin collapsed on the way back to his cell, and the carbineers had to carry him. He was placed on the stone floor, his eyes staring but unfocused. The interrogator untied his gag and stood back.

  “I’ve ordered an extra handful of Sennerese dates to be included with your next bowl of soup, just as a gesture of goodwill on my own part.”

  Maesterrin pushed himself up from the floor, turning to look up at the interrogator. It took some seconds for him to blink the tears out of his eyes and focus on the man’s hooded face.

  “My name is Fras Micael Maesterrin, Lieutenant First Class in the Macedon Infiltration Unit. I was born in the Mayorate of Rochester on the ninth of August in the Year of Greatwinter’s Waning 1705. That’s 3941 in your calendar. Rochester is on a continent on the other side of the world, Australica. I was recruited to the Infiltration Unit while studying at the University of Technology in Macedon, but it was not until I was trained and put aboard a very large wing powered by sunlight to come here that I was told my mission …”

  Maesterrin was taken out of the cell and bathed, clothed, and fed a small but tasty meal while he continued to pour out his background. The hooded interrogator stayed with him all the while, prompting and asking for clarifications from time to time. As dawn lit up the hills outside the window two silent footmen brought in breakfast and set it out with polished silver and tablecloths.

  “Not all of what you have said is entirely correct, Fras Maesterrin,” concluded the interrogator as the aviad ate, “but you may have been making honest mistakes. Do not trouble yourself, though, we shall return and do counterchecks with your story and those of the others until all is consistent. The important thing is goodwill, you see. Now I must go. Even interrogators get tired.”

  Maesterrin paused between mouthfuls of toast, puzzled. There was a second setting at the table. The interrogator closed a door behind him. Presently another door opened. A woman entered. She was wearing a calf-length pleated skirt of the style currently popular in Yarron, and long, black curls framed a delicate, round face. Her eyes were shining and her expression eager; she reminded Maesterrin more of a patriot than a whore.

  “Are you really a Callwalker?” she asked breathlessly as she reached the table.

  The aviad swallowed a piece of toast unchewed. “Yes, but that is not our name for ourselves.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, my name is Demelkie. I volunteered for—oh, this is so embarrassing. I was told some real Callwalkers had come from a distant place to help us, and that the Bartolicans are trying to kill them. I would be so proud to be the mother of a Callwalker. My husband and I have discussed this all, and, ah, we really want to raise your Callwalker child for Yarron.”

  When Maesterrin eventually fell asleep in her arms he was quite unaware that Captain Harmondes had never admitted anything but his name. The captain had merely been asked to participate in the Callwalker breeding program—then been covertly displayed to the other prisoners.

  The interrogator was not in bed, however. He was writing a report while a gunwing was being warmed up outside.

  To Saireme Airlord Sartov the First of Yarron. The third prisoner has broken, and his story confirms what the other two have told us. He agrees that calculor trams are the key to Bartolica’s success. He appears to genuinely not know what they are, except that they can calculate the best strategies for winning battles. The difference with Sair Maesterrin is that he was once a red tram driver, and he received some of his orders by watching unmarked sailwings dip their wings in a coded pattern. He has given us a current code, but apparently it changes every few days. My thought is that the tramloads of Bartolican carbineers are rallied and directed by the calculor trams. That is how their carbineers can fight in units of several thousand, even though they have never trained in groups larger than a few dozen. My advice would be to send your long-range hybrid gunwings out over tramways in Bartolican-occupied Yarron with orders to pick off any sailwing without markings. This could only be when the weather permits for now, but in spring a full-scale hunt for unmarked sailwings could play havoc with the Bartolican carbineers. I shall now concentrate on getting a description of the calculor trams, but the senior Callwalkers appear to keep these well disguised. The captain may know, so I have decided to suspend his work in the breeding program and have a series of rather intensive chats.

  By my hand on this 6th day of October, 3961, Warden Harney of Windridge.

  3 November 3960: Denver

  Laurelene’s journey through Yarron had made her more resourceful than she ever realized she could be. At the Yarronese capital she passed herself off as a warden’s widow and obtained a pass to go south, just before the siege began. She reached the Colandoro border on foot after weeks trekking through pasture disguised as a feather gleaner, and once over the border she was apprehended by a patrol of Colandoro carbineers. Because she had little money, she was sent to a refugee camp. More weeks passed. Laurelene started doing laundry for other refugees, then for the guards. Presently the officers began to employ her to clean their quarters. One evening she showed the guards at the camp gate her work pass, told them that one of the off-duty officers wanted her for some all-night housework, then winked. She was allowed out, and in the next five days walked sixty miles south to Denver through mushy snow.

  When she arrived at the offices of the Bartolican envoy to Colandoro she was trim, fit, and very, very angry.

  “My own countryman!” she raged, flinging yet another ornamental vase across the office to smash against a portrait of Airlord Leovor as the envoy cringed behind his desk. “He pounded my face to red mince so that I could not even speak to plead, then ripped open my clothing and knelt between my legs. I remember his weight pressing down on me and he—he actually kissed and licked the bloody bruises that he had just pounded into my face. I actually wanted him to have his way with me so that the beating and humiliation would just stop! Can you imagine that, Sair Envoy?”

  “But, ah, you escaped,” whispered the envoy.

  “A stranger, a Yarronese stranger, killed him and helped me escape.”

  “Even the ranks of our own carbineers are not free of occasional deviants,” suggested the envoy.

  “Occasional, Sair Envoy? I saw much, I heard even more. I felt a great deal too,” she shouted, pointing at her face.

  “There are realities of war—ah, actions against outlaws that women do not know.”

  “Women on the winning side, you mean,” Laurelene corrected, picking up another vase and slapping it against her free hand. “Now I am here and alive—and it’s more by accident and Yarronese goodwill. I want sixty orbens and official papers and passes from your office. Debit it from my husband’s service account.”

  “Of course, and you are welcome to stay in the diplomatic lodgings.”

  “I need no rooms. There are people that I must visit.”

  “But I have no consulate guards to spare, what with the war—”

  “I have a spring-clip pistol, and the Yarronese taught me how to use it. Would you like to know how many Bartolican carbineers I have killed, Sair Envoy?” she asked, tossing the vase to smash through a window and drawing the pistol.

  The man’s jaw worked several times as he stared down the barrel, but he could muster no words that seemed suited to the occasion. Suddenly he remembered the folder on the desk before him. With a convulsive movement he seized and opened it, producing a sealed letter with a flourish.

  “This—this arrived before the border was closed due to the out
laws—”

  Laurelene snatched it out of his hand.

  “I shall read it at my leisure,” she said as she slipped it into her bag. “The affairs of home are made a lot less urgent by distance.”

  “But the sender—”

  “Is my son. I can read. It is doubtless full of news of what and who my husband is getting up to while I am away. Good morning to you, Sair Envoy.”

  When she had stamped out of his office and slammed the door the envoy lay back in his chair and blew a long, gusty breath between pursed lips. In her fury Laurelene had not noticed that the seal on her son’s letter was that of the Inspector General. The envoy had learned of the elder Hannan’s death through other channels, but after what he had endured for the previous twenty minutes he was in no mood to prolong any interview with Semme Laurelene Hannan. With luck she would be a long way away when she finally opened the letter.

  The Monastery of the Holy Wisdom was fifteen miles from the city walls of Denver, but not far from a steam-tram hailstop. Laurelene walked to the gates carrying her own bags, introduced herself to the monk on guard, and declared that she was not expected. He rang for a liaisory monk, Brother James, who hurried out to meet Laurelene.

  “This is a scholarly monastery, not a contemplative retreat,” he explained as they walked the snow-bordered path to the guesthouse. “We get few visitors who are of your rank, Semme Hannan, our attraction is mainly to scholars.”

  “Brother James, I survived the siege of Median, fought my way to Yarronese lines, then walked here from Forian. If your rooms are more comfortable than a burned-out farmhouse or the shelter of a hedgerow then I shall be quite content.”

  “I see, yes, well, they are superior to all that. They have a little grate, and a bunk with featherdown quilts.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll make a donation as soon as I put my bags down.”

  They entered the guesthouse and Laurelene stood beside a fire in the parlor as Brother James stepped out to arrange a room for her. Presently he returned and announced that her room was being made up, and that she could go to it in ten minutes.