The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “So you have this aircraft now?”

  “I admit nothing, sair Kalward. I am an airlord, you are a guildsman—supposedly. Tell me more.”

  “Reports to hand say that the wing came down largely intact about five miles from a tramway to Wind River. They also say that your men carried the thing out in sections because it was designed to break apart that way. It is now in a tent at the edge of Wind River wingfield, and guarded by carbineers with shoot-to-kill orders. Is all of that correct?”

  “I am yet to hear something of interest, sair Kalward. More facts, if you please.”

  “I have no more facts as such, Lordship, but I can tell you one thing for certain. The wing had engines unlike any you have ever seen before, and controls that have baffled your finest and most learned guildsmen. There are no fuel tanks, and the structure is at least four times lighter than your finest sailwings.”

  “Tell me something that I do not know.”

  “The sailwing is powered by electrical essence, and the dead flyer’s hair looked like long, fine feathers when put under a magnifier. My hair does as well, and I know how to repair it.”

  Sartov assimilated all this without pausing as he paced, but his heart was racing.

  “You say you are a guildsman and a Callwalker. Why should I let you near your own wing? Why would you repair it for us?”

  “Because us aviads, Callwalkers as you quaintly describe us, are no more united than you humans. These wings are all old technology. We can repair and maintain them, but they are impossible for us to build from scratch. At present a renegade faction has all of our sunwings. The sun powers them, you see, but they can store reserves to fly by night as well.”

  “Go on.”

  “The wing that you have is a ferry, it is used to ascend to the truly huge sunwings that can fly around the very world itself. Your wings cannot fly so high. With our captured ferry you can storm aboard one of those sunwings that your flyers have seen from time to time.”

  Sartov was keeping a very strict inventory of what was being said. Kalward had given little away, had made an unverifiable offer, and clearly wanted the electrical sailwing back very badly.

  “Apart from the fact that I have something that you want, what incentive do I have to trust you?” Sartov asked.

  “Lordship, Bartolica could never have crushed your fair dominion without help from, ah, Callwalkers. I offer you a chance of stanching the supply of those Callwalkers. Does the thought not appeal to you?”

  “You could be one of the rogue Callwalkers. Can you prove otherwise?”

  “No, but if you were to take me back to Wind River I would be but one among thousands. Your guildsmen could watch me work instead of attempting damaging experiments themselves. When it came time to test the wing, well it has seating for two, remember?”

  “How long have you been here?” asked Sartov.

  “In Vernal? Oh about two days.”

  “No, I meant in Mounthaven?”

  “Eleven months.”

  “Eleven months … So you were here all along,” said Sartov, in a tone of speculation mixed with malice. “When the Callwalkers were sabotaging the defenses of our cities, town, and estates, you had the people we needed to stop them. The Bartolicans would not have got past Akemore before we started to push them back. Why didn’t you help earlier?”

  “We have very limited facilities to travel all the distance from Australica, and we started coming over later than the renegades. There is only a handful of us here, including myself. Thanks to your campaign against the Callwalkers in Yarron, most of us have had to flee to refuges where humans would not be … comfortable.”

  Sartov stopped. His eyes moved to focus on a brass model gunwing mounted above one of the fountains, but otherwise he stood motionless. Kalward fidgeted as the silence lengthened. Sartov’s eyes slowly returned to fix upon him.

  “I shall take you back to Wind River in my trainer, but with a gun pressed against your head all the way. When you work on the, the sunwing, you will be under guard at all times.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “You are to do one thing and one thing only, sair Kalward or whoever you really are. You must get the sunwing airworthy and show us how it can be flown.”

  “They need maintenance as well. My people—”

  “I’m sure the Guild of Airframe Fabricators can manage under your good instructions. Just get it working.”

  7 July 3961: Wind River

  Four days later Sartov was back in Wind River, along with the Airlords of Cosdora and Dorak. The occasion was the thousandth anniversary of Yarron’s foundation, and envoys from Senner and Deanery were there as well. The actual ceremony was held on the wingfield, with thirty gunwings and sailwings on patrol overhead. The only color in the gathering was the flight jackets of those gathered to listen. Sartov stood on a low dais and had to shout through a megaphone to make himself heard above the engines. That was no matter, however, as the text would be spread far and wide within very short order.

  He started with the usual words on Yarron’s history, glories, and triumphs against terrible odds.

  “The adversities over which we have triumphed are greater than you may imagine. You may wonder how Yarron was so badly mauled in the war, so as to be reduced to this little fastness in the mountains. The truth is that the Bartolicans have made contact with a new race of people, a race immune to the Call. Callwalkers.”

  He paused for emphasis, for the statement was indeed unbelievable. Rumors had been circulated to add credibility to the idea, but this was the first time that an official pronouncement had been made on the subject.

  “There are not many of them, for they come from a very remote place and the journey here is difficult. We are not even sure why they favor Bartolica over any other dominions, except perhaps that Bartolicans are sufficiently stupid to trust an ally with such an immense potential for betrayal.”

  The gibe brought a ripple of laughter, and in a curious way added credibility to Sartov’s words.

  “Throughout our long and glorious history there have been many legends and tales of magicians, elementals, and even the bigfoot being able to resist the Call. Never once has any proof been tendered, however. Now I can give you proof!”

  Kalward was brought up onto the dais in irons. An orderly set up a folding table and field microscope for all to see. Sartov called for a representative from the crowd to come forward, and a junior airframe guildsman soon found himself standing beside the Airlord.

  “Take your knife, cut a few strands of my hair, and put it under the microscope,” Sartov ordered.

  He obeyed. The orderly helped the man with adjusting the slide and bringing it into focus on the black and grey strands.

  “I see strands like big, scaly ropes,” he reported.

  “Now do the same with some of your own hair.”

  The guildsman did as he was told, and reported the same result.

  “Do the same with some strands of this man’s hair,” ordered Sartov, pointing to Kalward.

  Kalward flinched away as the strands of his hair were cut. The guildsman peered into the eyepiece.

  “They’re like long, fluffy feathers!” he exclaimed.

  Sartov suspended the address and let dozens of others clamber up onto the dais to see for themselves. Kalward’s hair was pulled and his scalp examined while carbineers looked on vigilantly. Over twenty minutes passed before Sartov began speaking again.

  “As you have seen, this man has hair like very fine feathers, and as we all know, birds of all sizes are immune to the Call. He came to me from Bartolica, proposing a scheme which might have robbed us of our most secret and effective of weapons. Now he is our prisoner, a living testament to the real reason for Bartolica’s victories. Go to your units, take hair from everyone, and examine it beneath a physician’s microscope. Should you find any with the look of a feather, kill the featherhead at once! Show no mercy, do not hesitate.”

  The term “featherh
ead” suddenly became the most feared and despised word in the Yarronese vocabulary, and it quickly spread to Cosdora and Senner as well. Of over five hundred people seized and shot over the ensuing week only sixty proved to be real aviads, but gradually better testing standards and regulations reduced the number of innocent executed to almost nil. Kalward was kept in close confinement and subjected to intensive study and questioning. He was not allowed anywhere near the sunwing.

  Most important of all, the legendary ability of Bartolican commanders to pick where Yarronese forces were most vulnerable suddenly diminished, and every front became a stalemate. For the Yarronese it was a most welcome relief in a year of continual setbacks and disasters. For the Bartolicans it meant the end of the cavalcade of victories that had fueled the morale of their war effort and bound the large and diverse dominion together. For all that, however, Bartolica was still ruler of half of Mounthaven. That was enough to ensure Stanbury’s credibility in the short term, but strategically he knew that he was vulnerable.

  9 July 3961: Bartolica

  The attack on the Bartolican palace had a profound effect on the politics of the entire region. Within Bartolica itself, the north and central regions allied with Samondel at once, but the east and southwest were more reluctant. Thus Stanbury needed a new unifying factor. In the southwest the garrisons were strengthened against a counterattack from the wilderness deserts of Senner, and warden patrols regularly reported intense nomad activity to the south. The upgrade of Bartolican strength was purely to retain central control, however, and was of limited use against outside attack.

  Strategically speaking, the Wind River stronghold seemed the least of Bartolica’s problems. Once the hysteria from the super-regal attack had subsided, the strategic staff ascertained that the attack had been a superbly coordinated and executed effort by a very small number of gunwings. The main factor favoring the Yarronese attackers had been the Bartolicans’ very complacency. Stanbury took steps to change all that.

  A massive program was commenced to build two hundred enhanced gunwings, sailwings, and regals, and everyone who could fly an aircraft was put through combat training—including guildsmen, mechanics, and carbineers. Stanbury’s strategy, like Sartov’s, was always to keep his enemies busy. Eastern Bartolica was starved of resources while carrying much of the campaign to subdue the growing rebel activity in Dorak. The central government concentrated on the difficult war of attrition against Senner and Cosdora, wearing down the newly constructed fortified garrisons and building garrisons of their own. On the other hand, sensible military planning and minor, bloody battles did not have as much public appeal as the swift, decisive defeat of Median or the fall of Yarron’s capital. Something major was needed, something as inspiring as the destruction of Wind River.

  “Wind River is an annoyance that we can well do without,” Stanbury declared to Archcarbineer Carabas as they looked over a papier-mâché diorama of the whole of Mounthaven.

  “Wind River is also behind some very impressive natural barriers needing few defenders,” said Carabas. “The Wind River Range, and the Red Desert. To the north the Dorak rebels are working with them, and in the east the approaches are difficult and they are well dug in.”

  “Pah. My agents estimate that they have less than ten thousand souls in Wind River. Our carbineers alone outnumber their entire population.”

  “My agents put the unaccounted Yarronese higher than that, Archwarden. After what happened at Median and the western cities, the field officers reported that a lot of women had joined the combatants, so one must deduce that—”

  “That they are desperate enough to field women,” concluded Stanbury in triumph. “It is a sure sign of defeat.”

  “Well, we could attack from the east, striking along the torn-up tramway from Bonneville to Riverton. It would be slow, as most of their forces are there, they are dug in securely, and there are Dorakians with them too.” “In short, a difficult, unrewarding, and costly campaign. Those huge Yarronese regals have been strafing our steam trams and trains as they cross the Red Desert. Between them and the Dorakian rebels we are lucky if three trains in five reach the east of Yarron. Not a day passes without an attack on our sailwings in Bartolican airspace, and even our gunwing flocks have been mauled in full view of the conquered towns and cities.”

  “Well, their flyers are very good, and are generally led by the Air Carbineers. They also began experiments with nontraditional wings long before we did. Meantime our wardens and guildsmen still resist innovations.”

  “Yes, I know. It is ironic that in the very act of destroying their airpower I turned loose such an unchivalric monster. Still, monsters can be slain just as dead as mice. I intend to mount an attack on Wind River from the air.”

  Carabas blinked.

  “The air?”

  “Yes. The air.”

  Carabas considered a diplomatic reply, then decided against it. There were too many valuable aircraft at stake.

  “Archwarden Stanbury, with all possible respect and deference might I remind you that the Yarronese air defenses are as tight as a duck’s backside. Even if our flocks got through, we know little about their targets.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong. Bartolican sailwings have been secretly developed that can fly higher than any Yarronese wing. Their flyers have mapped targets: wingfields, workshops, steam tram marshaling yards, storehouses, bridges, and compression spirit barrel pits.”

  “I have never heard of such sailwings.”

  “You are a carbineer. I would be alarmed if you had.”

  Carabas had in fact written the specifications for those sailwings, but only three men in that entire hemisphere knew that. Stanbury was not one of those men. Carabas’ problem was that Stanbury was planning a desperate gamble to win back the initiative in the war, while his own requirement was to merely harvest as many undamaged aircraft as possible from wherever they might not be missed. If Carabas had his own way, the war would be kept festering along inconclusively for years and major air battles would be avoided at all costs.

  Stanbury unrolled a map and spread it over a nearby table. The geography was of the Wind River area, but few of the marks and shadings looked familiar to Carabas.

  “The wardens would never consent to something as crass as dropping bombs,” Carabas pointed out doubtfully. “They’d not let their squires do so either.”

  “No, but some of the new Air Guild flyers have already been bombing towns in Dorak,” Stanbury assured him, pointing out several pins in the surface of the diorama.

  “There will be deaths. One gunwing in five will be lost.”

  “Good, then we shall put the wardens from the southwest and southeast in the first wave. Not all of our enemies are on the other side of the front.”

  “But why do it at all?” pleaded Carabas.

  “Because Yarron is nothing without its gunwings. Senner is massing its nomad carbineers to strike us from the south, as people have been telling me in every tactical advisory meeting for three weeks. If we can disable Yarron’s wingfields for even a fortnight we can hit the nomads with everything we have from the air. The Cosdorans hate such unchivalric clear air fighting, so we are unlikely to see them help unless Yarron gives a lead.”

  “My carbineers can help in following up against the nomads on the ground,” said Carabas, trying to rally some enthusiasm.

  Stanbury smiled broadly and selected three pins representing three thousand of the Bartolican carbineers each. He stuck them into the papier-mâché at a tram stop on the Dorak-Bartolica border, just west of the Wind River Range. Carabas watched as he traced a path with a pair of dividers.

  “Your carbineers will march north to Jackson Lake and then east through this pass to Gannett and Wind River. In three days you will be engaging the Yarronese, and in four Sartov’s head will be dangling from your utility belt.”

  Back in his own chambers again, Carabas had made up his mind by the time his aviad courier, Traffon, arrived with the l
atest dispatches. As the courier was shown in, Carabas was drinking tepid green tea from the terraced hills near Denver and reclining on a giltbead couch.

  “Even in the Overmayor’s palace there was never luxury such as this,” Carabas said with a gesture to the elegant Aubenton tapestries and rich furnishings. “Throughout the surviving civilizations the world round, there is no people quite so good at living in comfort as the Bartolicans.”

  “Some might call it decadance, sair Carabas,” replied Traffon respectfully but firmly.

  “You judge them harshly. They live well, but work hard and fight fiercely. After the Miocene Arrow strikes, I shall make Condelor my capital and this will be my palace.”

  “It will require a lot of upkeep.”

  “Which slaves from Mexhaven will provide.”

  They walked across to stand looking out over the palace wingfield. A line of gunwings stood ready to ascend at short notice, and guildsmen were moving about with a portable furnace that piped hot air over the compression engines.

  “When will I know what the Miocene Arrow is, and when it will be fired?” asked Traffon.

  “When it no longer matters, when it is over. If you are caught and tortured you must say nothing because you know nothing. Too many of our people have been caught, and not all have been killed.”

  “I have heard that they are being tortured by being mated with Yarronese beauties to breed aviads,” Traffon responded.

  “It may be true, it may not. From Kalward’s reports it is evident that the Yarronese are not particularly friendly toward us Callwalkers.”

  “Nevertheless, he is in a position of trust.”

  “Only because they think that the ferrywing has value. Before long they will realize that it is not a weapon, and that it will take a century of applied research and reverse engineering to duplicate its technologies. By then Kalward should have arranged the theft of a sample of their superb long-range wings, but in the meantime we must protect the facilities at Wind River from damage. Inform Sair Kalward about an impending Bartolican air attack. Tell him to find some way to alert the Yarronese.”