The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “A very good hit,” reported the tail gunner.

  The bomb had detonated a few feet behind the throne of the Airlord of Greater Bartolica, and if one could discuss differences in terms of millionths of a second, he was one of the first to die. The blast, the falling roof, then the collapsing tower annihilated the assembled nobility of Greater Bartolica before they were aware of what had happened.

  The super-regal banked over the city, then began another approach on the palace gardens. A part of Bronlar’s mind watched in wonder as the rest of her prepared for the next pass on the palace. The palace had been hit and that had to be the target. The Great Hall of the Throne had been hit while the Airlord’s personal colors and pennants flew from the masts of the shattered tower. He had been humiliated … he had probably been killed. On the palace wingfield several gunwings were scrambling onto the ascent strip while the aerobatics display continued in the distance. She broke off for the wingfield, leaving the super-regal in Alion’s care.

  Alion was numb with shock. He had dropped lower than Bronlar and had seen the palace and its gardens very clearly. They passed over a parade with bands and marchers—and then he saw a tall girl with long, red hair unbound at the head of the parade. The bomb flew free.

  Alion flew through the debris of the blast, fighting for control in the turbulent smoke and dust, and cursing Serjon and Sartov to hell. He followed the great super-regal around as it came in for another pass. Ahead, Bronlar broke off, heading for the wingfield. Ballistic rockets began streaming from the super-regal. The terrified groups of nobles in the gardens were in Serjon’s sights now, and again there was a tiny figure running with long red hair streaming out behind her.

  Alion tugged at a lever and his two ballistic rockets streaked into the super-regal’s starboard wing.

  The super-regal belched flame and smoke from the ravaged wing, lost height, and sliced the top from an ornamental tree while Alion stayed behind, firing his reaction guns into the central body. Incredibly, Serjon managed to level out, then ease the super-regal up slowly as he dumped a plume of fuel from ruptured tanks. He gunned the surviving port engines to overboost and cleared the palace garden walls, but began to clip more trees in the park beyond.

  Serjon fought for height, but each tree that he touched robbed momentum. The enormous wing lost more power as the outer port engine seized; then it began dropping in a shallow glide. It clipped a gargoyle from the roof of a mansion and slid along a street. The wings were torn from the central body as it plowed its way through poles, carts, and garden fences before it demolished a low wall and splashed half into a canal.

  Alion flew over the wreck. He had sacrificed everything in the defense of his beloved. Now it was time to go to her side.

  Bronlar had not seen Alion fire at Serjon. She had flown across to the palace wingfield, shooting two ballistic rockets into a gunwing that was ascending and strewing wreckage all over the flightstrip. She came around again, shooting her reaction guns at the other gunwings getting ready to ascend, then climbed to look for Serjon. She circled over the city in a tight curve, banking near-vertically and losing height as she came about to scan for Serjon. Beyond the palace there was a long smear of flame and wreckage that ended in a canal. By the sheer scale it could only have been the super-regal. Serjon was down, Serjon had to be dead.

  The former Airlord of Yarron was left alone in the middle of the plaza before the steps to the Great Hall of the Throne. The carbineers who had been marching beside him scattered as a monstrous sailwing with Yarronese markings lumbered overhead. Musicians flung down their instruments and dived for cover, people in full parade regalia lay sprawled and cowering on the lawns or dived for bushes. The six-engine giant released a dark teardrop that arced down and smashed neatly through the colored leadlight glass of the Great Hall of the Throne. For a moment there was only a hole in the window; then glass, tiles, flames, and smoke belched from the windows and roof, followed by a blast of sound that doubled Virtrian over like a punch to the stomach.

  Somehow the former Airlord was spared the shards of glass and debris that hurtled past him. The remains of the roof collapsed with a mighty rumble, parts of the walls began to tumble as well, some out and some inward, and then the tower came down in a fantastic cascade of bricks, stone and masonry. Virtrian fell to his knees, his fist raised, cheering.

  Yarron was undefeated, Yarron was being avenged.

  Stanbury watched in horror as the tower collapsed. This was the very hour of triumph for the Airlord of Bartolica, yet an infernal monster of a sailwing had appeared from nowhere to hit the Great Hall itself.

  “You say they are vanquished, yet they can still do that?” cried Vander, stabbing a finger up at the stump of the shattered palace tower.

  “An act of wanton terrorism, nothing more,” Stanbury shouted back. “They’re suicidal fanatics and assassins.”

  “Those fanatics and assassins seem to have some very advanced sailwings,” replied Hannan.

  Stanbury looked north and wondered where the defending Bartolican gunwings were that should have been rising into the air. Distant shots thumped and crackled as the palace defenses fired at an enemy triwing-type gunwing circling far beyond the range of their guns. He had counted three wings, one an enormous type of regal. How had they flown so far? Kalward had said the Sentinels were now harmless, that the aviads had disarmed them to aid Mounthaven in the war. The aid obviously worked both ways.

  “This looks bad, but it’s nothing,” said Stanbury dismissively, flapping a hand in the air as if the attack were a poorly fought clear air duel. “We knew they had two big regals and a dozen or so gunwings. We spared them out of mercy, but we should have crushed them. See there, at the south. Our own wardens are coming to slash them to pieces.”

  Somehow it was all so unreal to Bronlar. She was still alive while so many had died. Serjon in particular. She flew over his super-regal’s wreckage, then turned away once she was satisfied that nothing could be done. Looking back to the palace, she could see that fires had started.

  Her orders were unclear now. Off to the south there were gunwings approaching. Dragonfly-class gunwings, trainers. Bronlar counted, estimated twelve gunwings in the air. She banked, gaining height over the city as she turned north. Impossible odds, deadly odds. The dragonfly flyers were fresh, while she had been in the air nearly two hours—she attacked head-on.

  Pieces were flayed off her first target, which rolled on its back and fell away as she flew past. The ragged formation broke up, some scattering, others trying to ram her. Bronlar banked and streaked up behind a second dragonfly with her reaction guns blazing. A wing tank ruptured and ignited, trailing a plume of fire as the warden bailed out. Now she realized that these gunwings were unarmed.

  By now armed gunwings were ascending and Bronlar turned east to flee. Another dragonfly blundered up past her gunsights and she fired again. This time there were no dramatic fireworks, but the dragonfly continued to climb until it dropped back into a stall: the flyer was dead. Two dragonfly wings collided and fell circling, locked together.

  All at once the sky seemed to be clear as Bronlar looked around. A dragonfly was trying to circle and climb behind her. She put her gunwing into a sharp turn and closed, taking advantage of her much larger engine, then fired a sustained burst at the dragonfly. Her guns suddenly began clicking, but the enemy’s engine was trailing black smoke as it began to drop. Bronlar banked, caught sight of the looming dark form of a biwing gunwing, tried to swerve, and smashed into it with massive, wrenching impact.

  Red curtained her vision, all balance was gone, and cold air howled past her head. Bronlar pulled out of a steep dive, wiped at the blood on her face, then looked for her compass. Its housing was bent, and it was useless. I’m unarmed and damaged, she thought. The mountains were ahead and her compression engine was droning steadily. She blacked out.

  Laurelene turned away from the sky, folding her arms and staring expectantly at the wingfield adjunct, yet it was War
den Cadrice of Dorak who spoke.

  “One Yarronese gunwing just destroyed six of your gunwings and rammed another,” said Cadrice. “It might have destroyed them all had they not fled.”

  “They—were in pursuit of the enemy sailwing—ah, regal!” retorted Adjunct Stanceous.

  “The regal was down long before your gunwings flew west.”

  Adjunct Stanceous sucked breath in great gusts, as if pumping and stoking his fury.

  “This is but the last thrashings of a mortally wounded maniac,” he finally managed. “They will wish they had passed away quietly instead, I swear to it.”

  Bronlar awoke from a stupor, her compression engine still purring obediently. Blood had flowed down over her goggles. She pulled them away, shivering in the air that was whistling through the smashed glass-laminate plates of her canopy. Below were bare mountains with no familiar landmarks. The sky above was hazy, tinted red by blood that had trickled into her eyes. The dashclock was shattered, the fuel gauge read empty. The sun was high in the sky and to her right. Going east, then, and over mountains, she thought. Can’t have been blacked out for more than a few minutes, so I’m still over Bartolica, or maybe occupied Montras. Where might I find Montrassian rebels, if there are any?

  The engine spluttered, then caught again. Reflexively she reached up and switched to another wing tank. Again she blacked out.

  When she revived again she was shivering and there was yet more blood in her eyes. The blood was cold and caked hard. It seemed as if she had been asleep for hours—and bleeding all the while. The gunwing had been flying level, true to the guidance of the autobalance. The mountains were unfamiliar and bare, but they were giving way to more gently undulating country ahead.

  Off to starboard was a Call tower, and near that was a well-maintained wallroad and tramway. There were few trees, this was all mountains and grazing land. The reserve held five minutes of fuel, even hanging just above stall speed; she had to decide what to do quickly. A Call tower meant a town nearby. With lethargy weighing down on her limbs she leaned forward and peered about. No town. But the town would be to the west of a Call tower anyway. A flash of color caught her eye on a plateau to the left. A wind pennant, and that meant a wing-field.

  She banked sluggishly and approached, then circled once. Red and gold on the wind pennant meant a regional capital’s wingfield. She straightened, reduced power, dropped. The wind was light and steady, the surface seemed to be rammed gravel in clay. Her wheels touched, shrieked and spun. As she rolled to a stop she cut the engine. Nobody there. She unclipped her harness, tried to move—and blacked out.

  Bronlar awoke with her canopy off and two men lifting her out of the cockpit. Their language was familiar but she only recognized occasional words.

  “Girl!” and “Squire girl!” were being repeated over and over.

  “Does anyone speak Yarronese?” she whispered.

  “Speaking, yairs,” replied one of the men lowering her onto a stretcher.

  “Where is this, what dominion?”

  “This is the Vernal wingfield in the dominion of Glorious Cosdora. Lying very still now, if it is to please.”

  Cosdora, a neutral dominion. Tears of relief trickled from Bronlar’s eyes and mixed with the blood caking her face.

  “As an Air Carbineer of Yarron I request asylum and sanctuary in the wardenate of Cosdora,” she said firmly.

  “Young Semme, adjunct is sent for and granting is likely. You are out of war.”

  Hours later the four surviving super-regals and their escort returned to Wind River. The flockleader reported a great victory: Twin Falls assembly wingfield had been bombed, rocketed, and left in flames. The Bartolicans had been caught completely off-guard. The shatter-bombs had hit the central area; then the ballistic rockets and reaction guns had strafed without mercy for a full ten minutes. One super-regal had not returned, and nine gunwings had been lost as well as the two that had returned earlier.

  “But the super-regal and two of the gunwings were not lost in the attack on Twin Falls,” the adjunct reported to Sartov as he flicked through the pages on his board.

  “Then what happened?” Sartov asked.

  “They became separated quite early in the flight, after the Bartolican flock attacked. They were last seen flying southwest”

  “They might have landed in neutral territory,” said Sartov, turning to a map on the wall of the adjunct’s tent.

  The adjunct traced the likely flight path. “It takes them quite close to Condelor, and all its wingfields. Does that look hopeful?”

  “Feydamor was the super-regal’s wingcaptain, and the escorts were Wardens Damaric and Jemarial. Why did it have to be them? The whole of Serjon’s flock gone, apart from young Ramsdel.”

  “If it is any comfort, they were not confirmed destroyed.”

  “Well, if they were killed, let us hope that they died bravely and took a few Bartolicans with them.”

  In the distance someone in a flight jacket waved then saluted. Sartov beckoned him over, and they saw that it was Ramsdel.

  “You should be with the medic,” said Sartov as the limping flyer approached.

  “I’ve just come from the medic. It’s Semme Liesel.”

  “Kumiar’s girl?”

  “Yes. She just shot herself.”

  It was not until the following day that strange rumors of Condelar being bombed by a huge Yarronese regal found their way to Sartov. It was even said that the Bartolican Airlord himself had been killed and that his palace was destroyed. Sartov dismissed the reports as nonsense, but he nevertheless decided to send one of the high-altitude sailwings over. Such extensive damage should have been visible from the air … and it certainly was.

  6 May 3961: Eastern Yarron

  Yarron had come back from the dead as Rollins’ tram sat concealed in a siding in eastern Yarron on the cool May afternoon. He heard the peeping code begin, and then he memorized the message exchange word for word. The content was ominous, and Rollins decided that it was now worth his while to jump from the Bartolican war machine at the first opportunity. He did not realize how literally he would have to do just that.

  # palace bombed by Yarronese regal as big as a town

  # Airlord dead thousands dead aviad liaisons dead

  # need orders no liaisons left

  * who is Commander in Chief

  # Carabas

  The hysteria in the distant signaler’s words could not be masked by the uniform, shrill peeping. What was in his head might not get Rollins anything but a spray of bullets from his present masters, but the Yarronese might see him as a hero. It was all a matter of getting his head intact to the Yarronese lines.

  That night the black tram was proceeding unescorted through the late evening, burning smoky, cinder-laden wood of very poor quality. A Yarronese sailwing came in low, and was not seen by the roof gunner until it was too late. There was a prolonged exchange of reaction gun fire that riddled the black tram and holed its boiler. The sailwing swooped away trailing smoke and went into a wide, shallow banking turn.

  Rollins saw flames playing about the engine as it came around for another pass and headed in at a shallow angle to the tramway. The flyer was very low, thought Rollins … or was mortally wounded. He undid his Call straps in a moment, flung open the forward door, and leaped into the darkness. Crashing through bushes on a steep embankment, he came to rest with a splintering thunderclap in his ears.

  The gunwing had knocked the black tram neatly from the tramway and down an embankment shadowed from Mirrorsun. They were west of Douglas and ten miles from an unmarked siding behind the North Yarronese front, and through some miracle the gunwing’s load of compression spirit had not caught fire. Everyone but Rollins seemed dead. The broken bodies of a Yarronese girl in a glittering flying jacket and her observer remained in the gunwing. He found a handful of glowbars in the flyer’s pocket and bent one until light began to leak out. The mangled sailwing was almost unidentifiable as a two-seat type. Almost
. Had Rollins been a coward he might not have yielded to temptation, but he was in fact a seasoned warrior and brave man. He was also a mercenary, and his masters had received some very serious reversals.

  For the first time Rollins explored the black tram’s shattered forbidden chambers, selecting what were hopefully significant samples of cards and papers, and scratching likenesses of the smashed machines with a pencil. A tram passed above, then another. The wreckage remained hidden in shadows. Here was a treasure trove that he could never get to Yarronese lines—but he could carry and hide paper. There would be manuals and repair diagrams, code books, and training notes.

  Rollins spent an hour carrying armloads of paper and dumping them into a rocky grotto. He also dropped the sunwing’s mangled reaction gun and mounting in before rolling rocks over onto the hoard of secrets. Returning to the wreckage, he dragged the observer’s body into the tram and draped his own jacket over it; then, as an introduction to the Yarronese, he removed the flight jacket collar and colors from the dead flyer girl. Finally he set fire to the spilled compression spirit.

  Carabas was on a red tram that came back to investigate the fire by the trackside later that night. Anyone could see that the wrecked Yarronese gunwing had been responsible for destroying the black tram, and all that remained to be gathered and removed were a few scattered papers that had survived the blaze.