“Forty units!” cried Feydamor. “Ten in one day can kill a man.”
“But I am a woman, and an aviad, either or both seems to make a difference. Since then I have been taking one unit of warden-heart every hour. I also have some coagulant gel, all the way from a place called Glenellen. It’s helped me hoard what blood I still have left.”
“You must let me tend you,” Feydamor said as he unbuckled his straps, but Theresla ordered him to stay where he was.
“I have a meeting to attend, but you are not required there. When I am gone you may want to appoint Darien as the envoy from Australica to Mounthaven. She understands your language and is expert at tapping code on those modulated induction radios. She is human, if that makes any difference.”
“When you are gone?”
“I’ve told the sunwing to take you to Forian. The Wind River folk are liable to shoot at this thing if it returns unannounced.”
“But I can’t fly it.”
“It knows the way, and it will train you once I am gone. There’s rations and water in the pannier lockers to the lower left of your seat. Explain where we went and what I did to Airlord Sartov, if he is interested.”
“Explain it? I don’t have the slightest idea what is happening. What—”
There was a hiss like air escaping a seal under pressure; then the access hatch on the starboard side slid down in a long, flat concertina. Theresla said simply “Goodbye!” and tumbled out.
Feydamor cried out incoherently as the hatch slid shut again and the sunwing began to bank and it turned to fly east. Theresla’s parachute billowed open, but she hung limp in the harness as it descended. She was carrying something about a yard long with a barb at one end and fins at the other.
“Theresla!” shouted Feydamor, trying to activate the concertina hatch again.
“Thank you for choosing to train on the Boeing-Aerospatiale Albatros Mark 2,” declared the cheery contralto voice of the sunwing.
“Go back! She’s wounded, she’s falling to the water!”
“We are programmed to fly to Forian today, and you have been nominated for introductory training during the flight At the end of the trip you will have a limited permit for supervised flight, ascent, and landing.”
The parachute reached the water and collapsed. Large, dark shapes began converging once she hit the surface.
“Do you wish to familiarize yourself with the basic methods of flight control?”
“Flap off.”
“According to your profile, you are an engineer with some flight training. Do you wish to discuss your skills with me before I assemble a tailored tutorial?”
“Leave me alone.”
“I register that you have elected to enjoy the view for now. In one hour I shall get back to you and we shall return to familiarizing you with the Boeing-Aerospatiale Albatros Mark 2.”
Several of the shapes in the water were far bigger than the collapsed parachute, but it was becoming difficult for Feydamor to keep it in view as the sunwing completed its turn. Now he saw that the back seat, floor, and sides were awash with the Callwalker woman’s blood, and several roughly opened field trauma kits were littered about. His reaction pistol was on the floor, but his greatcoat and boots had gone into the ocean with Theresla.
Serjon and Bronlar were both in gunwings, both armed with nothing more than their reaction guns and additional fuel pods. Mile after mile of sand hills rolled by below as the two hundred nine wings droned east at a steady 100 mph. By noon the country below was distinctly greener. They were over what had been the farmlands of northeast Nebraska two millennia before.
By now they were reduced to a single towing sailwing each, but as the Elkhorn River came into view below Serjon moved from vague apprehension to the Serjon who had ninety-seven victory symbols repainted on the side of Princess. Undoing his harness and leaning as far forward as he could, he engaged the priming levers, then sat back and strapped in again. A small, black knob beckoned, but if it did not work the first time he was out of the fight and dead. After running through the checklist in his mind again he cast around for anything resembling thirteen in his field of view, then seized the knob and pulled back firmly.
There was a sharp blast as the charge went off, and the propellor began to spin, aided by the slipstream. Cautiously Serjon spun his compression engine up from idle to cruise speed and slack began to show in the tow rope. He reached up and tugged at another small lever, this one protruding from the upper wing. The tow rope detached, and immediately the sailwing banked to port and the flyer waved. Bronlar’s gunwing was already flying free. Most engines had started—but not all. One towline remained attached to a gunwing whose engine remained stubbornly inert. Suddenly the flyer detached the tow rope, glided for a moment, then leaped from his gunwing and trailed parachute silk.
“What do you expect, flying to a war duel on the thirteenth day of the month,” Serjon said to the tiny, descending figure.
Serjon looked away, checking the sky for enemy aircraft. Down in the Callscour lands the man would die within days, if not hours. He checked his map, then marked a flyer down at the appropriate grid reference. The rest of the super-flock formed up around their designated regals and super-regals. Nine were in the close escort, the rest were either general air support or were ground attack and armed with ballistic rockets.
Carabas ascended in a long-range Sandwing prototype more by luck than acumen. It had occurred to him that the first Sandhawk might not get a good look at the super-flock that the combined dominions had assembled, and he was curious to see it for himself. Once in the air he climbed to 10,000 feet and pushed the Sandhawk’s speed to 300 miles per hour. The humans were sure to be using a variety of range-extension technologies to strike over such a distance, and the key to the Miocene Arrow’s success was extreme endurance.
He was not disappointed. Carabas was just thirty miles into his flight when he saw a vast flock below him. Fortunately the experimental Sandhawk was equipped with a miniaturized induction transmitter, and he tapped out a warning to the Sioux City wingfield’s adjunct at once.
ASCEND ALL GUNWINGS. ATTACK FLOCK OF SIXTEEN DOZEN WINGS APPROACHING. ESTIMATE QUARTER HOUR TO ARRIVAL.
After a moment an acknowledgment peeped in his headset. Carabas began a leisurely spiral to gain height, so that he could watch the attack in safety. While annoying, this was an ideal chance to study an extreme-range attack on surface-level targets. After the flock was gone, he would put his contingency plan into action and evacuate the base. Several Mexhaven rulers would be very pleased to provide shelter for Callwalkers, their captive Mounthaven guildmasters, and a large flock of operational aircraft.
Feydamor was staring blankly at the sunwing’s little frame screen, which was rolling arcane images in one corner and flashing numbers in the opposite. Theresla had been gone two hours, yet the little cabin was still scented with her blood. A senseless and filthy way to die, he thought over and over.
The screen suddenly blinked and flashed into a full-color image of—Glasken! He looked much younger.
“I came back to say goodbye, Fras Feydamor,” Glasken’s voice said above the whining of the electric engines.
“Sair Glasken, it’s good to see you! Rumor had it that you died.”
“I am dead, Fras. I died a messy and exceedingly painful death.”
“But, but what are you now? Where are you?”
“That’s beyond your comprehension, Jeb, but for me it’s a good approximation of Hell.”
“The devil you say!”
“Yes, there is a devil here, and her name is Zarvora. Jeb, listen carefully: Laurelene had a baby at Denver. Your son.”
“What? No!”
“That’s what I always used to say. She thinks kindly of you, Jeb, and you two could be very happy together. She should be in Forian with the baby by now. She is reluctant to approach you, so go to her instead. Make a new life together in the new world.”
“New world?”
“Theresla reac
hed the, ah, creatures that speak the Call, Jeb. She can speak their language, she told them that the aviads were going to slaughter them with barbed spear-bombs from gunwings.”
“What?”
“The aviads wanted to provoke them into intensifying the Call in Mounthaven, annihilating all humans and leaving it clear for them to take over. They would then use it as an arms factory and wipe out humans everywhere else in the world. Theresla told them that a balance between aviads and humans was needed. The Call-creatures listened to her, and Sartov’s worst nightmare has just come true.”
Feydamor felt a chill in spite of the warm, stuffy air in the cabin.
“Nightmare? What do you mean?”
“You will soon find out. My cohesion, my … my sanity is slipping, Jeb, but I can make one last contact with Laurelene. What shall I tell her?”
“Tell her—tell her yes. But what about Theresla?”
“She is dead, her collar told me that after her last words to me. I am dead too. Goodbye.”
Glasken’s image winked out before Feydamor could speak again.
“Sartov’s worst nightmare,” said Feydamor, shivering as he wondered what it might be.
Virtrian studied the terrain below against his map as the flock approached Sioux City’s ruins.
“Fifteen miles,” he called.
“Where’s that Missouri River then?” asked the dome gunner.
“Mind on the job, or you’ll be drinking it.”
“Number One Super has vapor from his inner port engine,” piped the rear gunner. “Not much, but it’s a long walk home.”
“Signaling now,” Ramsdel piped back.
The super-regal dipped to the left three times and to the right once. Behind them each wing dipped to the right and left as they checked for the fire he had signaled. Super-regal One remained steady for a time.
“He’s feathered it,” piped the rear gunner.
“Ten miles,” Virtrian called.
“Starting to drop, secure stations,” ordered Ramsdel.
“Nine miles.”
“Commence release check. Bombardier, release incendiary rack levers IR Alpha and IR Beta.”
It was times like these that Virtrian desperately wished for his missing arm instead of a tapered hook. “Releases confirmed.”
“Bombardier, release safety catch on drop levers IR Alpha and IR Beta.”
“Releases confirmed, ready to drop.”
“Just supply the standard responses if you please. Releasing reaction gun rack to starboard. Releasing gun rack to port.”
“Eight miles.”
“Rear and dome gunners, release the safety catches on your reaction guns.”
“Releases confirmed,” they answered in turn.
“Target acquired!” cut in Virtrian. “Immense, ancient wingfield. Gravity towers, rows of wings, rows of tenting.”
“What heading?”
“Six degrees to starboard, range would be … estimated point five miles.”
“Igniting pathfinder flare and altering course.
Yellow smoke streamed from the super-regal. It turned, leading the rest of the super-flock after it.
“Five miles. Interceptors ascending, others already high. Groundfire to port.”
“Keep the pipes clear for the bombardier,” warned Ramsdel as the low-flying super-regal began to buck in the slight turbulence.
“Four miles—bear two degrees to port, we have a gravity tower surrounded by tenting.”
“Your call, bombardier,” Ramsdel replied.
“Two miles, hold it steady.”
“Two gunwings, coming in from the sun, under fifteen.”
“Deal with them and shut up!” called Ramsdel.
Two gunwings overhauled the super-regal, one already trailing vapor, both with their reaction guns blazing. A Cosdoran gunwing sped after them; then they were gone.
“One mile.”
They swept over the perimeter. Reaction guns spat fire from the ground. The tail gunner fired back in reply.
“Your target!”
There was a slight lurch as the incendiary bombs fell away; then the five reaction guns on each wing erupted in a line of fire that converged on the gravity tower ahead of them. It burst into smoky flames then exploded and flung dark, acrid smoke into their path as Ramsdel climbed and banked.
“Estimate five, maybe six aircraft destroyed, hard to say through the tents,” reported the rear gunner. “The gravity tower and compression spirit dumps are burning.”
“Now listen up,” piped Ramsdel. “We wait until the others have had a run, then we have another. Commence secondary release check.”
The super-flock had managed to offset the immense distance with near-complete surprise. The defenders at Sioux City knew that the super-regals could reach as far as there and still return, but they expected them to be alone. Some aviad flyers even speculated about forcing a few of them down relatively intact. The appearance of sixteen dozen gunwings was nothing less than magical to them, and some even thought that they were suicides, operating right at the end of their reserves and about to crash.
Bronlar was in the second strike flock. Serjon had gone ahead with ten other gunwings to prepare the way for the super-regals by breaking up the formations of aviad interceptor wings that were positioning themselves to go down after the super-regals. When Bronlar arrived the air was . already filled with individual battles, with the aviads outnumbered but fresher and more alert. Bronlar fired a deflection burst at an unmarked Cosdoran guild gunwing that climbed past her gunsights, then broke away and settled behind an aviad that was firing at one of her flock. She caught him quite unaware, and left the engine smoking and the flyer dead. Another gunwing dived on her but overshot, only to find himself stopping the bullets of her reaction guns. He bailed out in a panic.
As she turned to find the rest of the flock Bronlar realized that most of the defenders of this huge wingbase were probably trainees, flyers who had never fired a shot in anger before.
Bronlar made a fast pass at a rising aviad formation, then realized that she still had her drop tanks attached. Reluctantly she switched to her main tanks and dropped her pods as she turned back, boosting her compression engine as she scanned the sky. Ahead an aviad gunwing was climbing to get behind Ramsdel’s super-regal, unprotected by any companion. Bronlar closed the gap and fired at the edge of her guns’ effective range, but enough shells impacted to panic the inexperienced aviad. He broke off and dived almost vertically to escape, but Bronlar knew that her first duty was to protect the super-regals and she let him go. Inexperience in the enemy gave her a victory, for he had forgotten how low to the ground they were fighting. By the time he began trying to pull out of his dive he was flying too fast and too low, and his gunwing buried itself in what had been a cornfield two millennia earlier.
Three other gunwings joined her, including Serjon’s. Immediately Bronlar knew something was wrong. Serjon was supposed to have turned back by now. Aviad gunwings approached in open order. Serjon dropped back, dived, and attacked an unmarked Yarronese triwing. It broke off and turned inside his attack, but Serjon was faster. He turned and climbed; the triwing doubled back and fired head-on, dueling-style. Serjon’s shells hammered into the triwing’s compression engine. A puff of black smoke trailed out of the triwing, to be followed by the aviad trailing a parachute. Serjon broke off. He’s already overstayed his time over the target, Bronlar thought with relief as Serjon turned west.
A wave of the new heavy sailwings was sweeping over the aviad wingfield firing incendiary rockets at the wing tents, but there were already dozens of fires burning and the question was now becoming one of finding targets amid the devastation. Bronlar noticed another aviad gunwing pursuing the heavy sailwings as they climbed and she came around in a tight circle, winding up her feed springs and switching to new ammunition belts as she closed.
She fired, but instantly there were bullets flying through the fabric all around her. She wove, slamming her fe
et against the rudder pedals and twisting the stick about. The aviad hung on skillfully, firing only as needed. Bronlar was already close to the ground, so there was little scope for evasion. Ahead of her was another gunwing, a Yarronese triwing. It approached head-on; it began firing.
Bronlar wrenched her gunwing to port and put it into a tight turn that almost had her down among the burning aircraft and tents. For a moment she wondered that the Call did not take her for dropping so low; then she was climbing again. She was just in time to see her attacker slam into the wingfield some distance away. Off to the west a triwing was struggling to gain height. That was her rescuer, and he was breaking for home. She checked her watch. Her five minutes over the target had already stretched to six, and the third wave of gunwings would be arriving by now. She looked warily around, then fell in behind the triwing that had saved her.
He had gained his kill by collision, as far as Bronlar could see. Part of the upper port wing was trailing fabric and smashed ribs, and there was some damage to the middle wing too. He would not make it, it was only a question of where he came down. The starboard wing array was high—and the name was Princess! Bronlar’s heart missed a beat. Serjon!
In spite of Bronlar’s fears there was no pursuit. Once clear of Sioux City they were in clear air. Off to port were three heavy sailwings flying in cover formation. Bronlar noticed that they were slowly pulling ahead. Serjon’s mangled wings had raised the drag of his gunwing, and he was trying to conserve the remaining spirit in his tanks. Another gunwing overhauled them, this one trailing a streamer of smoke. It vanished into the distance ahead, but after another half hour Bronlar noticed a pillar of smoke amid the sand hills. She noted the position on her issue map and made an entry in her flight log, but she doubted that it would serve as more than a note of the flyer’s resting place. It was now two hours since they had left the battle at the aviad wingbase.
A subtle difference in the color of the sand below traced an ancient rail track. Far off to port two regals passed them, apparently undamaged. Bronlar was startled to see another two dozen pairs of sailwings and gunwings heading east. On impulse she rolled Slash to signal that the fight had been going their way when she had broken off. Not long after that she noticed a pall of smoke slanting east and centered on the Alliance ruin. At that distance she could not distinguish whether any wings were still attacking. Then it struck her like a blow to the plexus: there was now a headwind blowing out of the west.
The Miocene Arrow Page 58
