Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  Cope sized them up as he ran at Daisy’s heels and figured their length at about 900 feet each. Glinting specks emerged from their underbellies, moving twice as fast as the dirigibles.

  Of course. They would have brought aero-carriers.

  Daisy slipped into the hangar off to their left. It was painted a drab, dark green and had walls far thicker than the rest. Cope followed her in.

  Here was Perch’s defense.

  A dozen biplanes crouched under the blazing lights. Cope took pride in them and the other two squadrons of fighting biplanes the city-state kept ready. Technicians scurried about, but Cope could see only two other pilots beside himself and Daisy.

  She turned suddenly. Cope skidded short. “Do you want to wait for the full squadron?”

  Cope shook his head. “There’s no telling when the rest may arrive, if they can even get here in time.” He knew of three other pilots who had the day off. It was just happenstance that even he had been at the hangar.

  If he were a more superstitious man, he’d see the hand of the Consuls or Nature in this. Maybe even Thel. But he didn’t fly in the same circles as Winch. It was his own strength, skills, and wit that mattered up in the sky.

  Daisy donned her flight cap. “Don’t get shot down, Cope.”

  Cope grinned. “Same to you. You’re coming with me to the dance tomorrow, right?”

  Daisy chuckled. “Wouldn’t place a wager on it, flyboy.”

  “As long as I know the odds,” Cope said.

  They ran to their respective planes. All were identical save the painted black and white numbers and “Hunt-Hawes Vigilantes” in blazing blue with shining white fangs and glaring red eyes painted on the front fuselage. Each bore the pair of black dice with white numeral dots totaling seven on the midsection, the symbol for First Squadron. Cope’s aeroplane, however, was set apart by a yellow and black striped tail. Such was the perk of being squadron leader. That, and having it set out at the head of the other planes.

  He scrambled up the wing and into the cockpit. One of the techs appeared as if from nowhere, hands on the prop.

  “Go, go!” Cope made a circle over his head even as he got the starter ready. The tech pushed up then cranked down hard on the prop. Cope punched the starter. The tech skittered back, shoes squeaking on the stone surface, as the engine sputtered, then growled to life.

  Cope grinned and secured his flight cap. The engine’s power shook the fuselage and the pilot—he imagined himself in the grip of a giant. He checked his skysail pack. Everything was secure. One last thing: He pulled the talisman from around his neck and rubbed it. For luck. That was his one concession to the supernatural. He gave the technician a thumbs-up and eased forward on the yoke.

  His Vigilante, marked PF-00, rolled out onto the runway. The tarmac was startlingly clear of aerocraft. With one look, Cope took in the dirigibles and their approaching fighters—no, they were bigger than plain fighters. Cope was willing to bet they carried incendiaries. This was not going to be pretty.

  A green flag waved. The technicians by the hanger raised their fists and brandished the cloths. Cope gunned his engine. The Vigilante hurtled down the runway. It bounced twice and leaped into the air.

  Daisy’s aeroplane, PF-03, was lining up for take-off, and another biplane was angling behind her as it emerged from the hangar. Well. Three was better than none.

  Cope pushed the Vigilante into a climb, its engine growling with the delight he always imagined his machine felt. He kept his speed down for now. No point in letting these bandits know his top velocity yet if they’d never fought against a Perch flyer before.

  He cinched up his jacket collar against the biting wind. One more look. Good. Daisy had formed up on his right wing. She waggled her wingtips at him in greeting. The third biplane—PF-07, that was Treadwell Krol’s—formed on his left. Cope saw two more rolling out onto the rapidly receding tarmac behind them. The odds were improving.

  The bandit aeroplanes were more visible now, at about ten miles out—a few minutes. Six of them were biplanes painted a bold orange. The other two, lagging behind the other six planes, were triplanes with nearly 40-foot wingspans and three engines. Those would be the bombing craft—not much bigger than Cope’s Buzzard back at the aerodrome, but more heavily defended and able to carry incendiary explosives.

  Cope frowned. He hated to split his force, but he had little choice. He sidled his plane in closer to Daisy. Once she noticed him, Cope made a series of gestures—he flashed two fingers, then a fist, which he thumped on the side of his cockpit, then a slashing move with his hand across his neck.

  Daisy saluted. She knew his hand code. All the defense pilots did. Roughly translated: Two bombers. Shoot them down.

  Daisy gunned her engine and climbed. Cope gave Tread the sign for him to follow her. Tread’s biplane matched Daisy’s ascent.

  Cope, meanwhile, pulled hard on the thrust lever.

  The bandits opened fire on Cope and his wingmen from the very edge of their range. Cope snickered. What kind of thin air had they been breathing? Let them waste their shells.

  They must have realized their mistake because they stopped firing, by pairs. Cope counted off the distance in his head. He knew they were waiting for him to make the first move.

  He’d oblige.

  Cope reached for the brass lever on the far right of his cockpit console. He’d have only two shots. But they were staying well clustered together. Coming right toward the Perch fighters, head-on.

  Closer… Their engine noise was a distant buzz just barely audible through his own engine’s thunder. The wind stung his cheeks.

  They opened fire again. Still, they miscalculated. But not by much.

  Cope yanked hard on the firing lever. His plane jumped—like a branter bit by a snake. Flame and smoke shot out from under his fuselage. The projectile sputtered and spiraled ahead. The bandit aeroplanes scattered like leaves on the wind. But they didn’t react fast enough.

  The rocket exploded in a burst of black smoke and brilliant fire. Shrapnel shredded the wings and fuselage of the nearest biplane. Its engine caught fire, and it sunk into a long, twisting spin. Another plane staggered away with a torn upper right wing.

  “Who says Hinohama rockets are junk?” Cope muttered.

  He put his plane into a tight left double roll. When he yanked back on the yoke, he was head-on—and upside down—with a very surprised bandit pilot. Cope opened fire with his Keach guns.

  The double cannon thundered, its flashes sputtering as it threw its heavy shells ahead. Bam-bam-bam…it was a steady, clockwork beat. Cope knew the math—120 per minute. The bandit returned fire but was headed at the wrong angle to Cope, and his shots went wide. Cope’s, however, drilled through the upper wing and into the cockpit. He didn’t see any blood, but the biplane went suddenly listless. It flew ahead, of its own accord, and spun out of control toward the valley floor.

  Gun bursts startled Cope. No time to celebrate victory. He leveled out his plane. Another of the biplanes swooped in from the right and steadied on his tailfin.

  Cope swore. He threw the biplane into a hard right and slammed on the brakes. The wings trembled and groaned at the stress. Easy, doll.

  The pursuer soared right by him. Cope grinned. He hit the thrust and brought his plane into an easy left bank and leveled out on the other pilot’s tail. The plane bobbed and weaved in attempt to throw Cope off. He shook his head, not really expecting anyone else to see the gesture. Too little, too late.

  He thumbed the safety off the Keach gun. Then he yanked on the brass crank at his right knee—that lowered the barrel down so it would fire more on his level. Soon. Deep breath.

  The other pilot was good. Cope could tell by the way he constantly adjusted his flight path, trying to get Cope off his tail.

  Good. But not good enough.

  Cope pressed down on the Keach’s trigger as he swung his biplane back to the right. The plane ahead ducked the incoming shells. Its pilot threw it over into
a spiraling loop. They headed into a nosedive.

  Well done. Maybe they weren’t all infants in the cockpit. Cope gritted his teeth and matched the maneuver. Wind clawed at his face with fury. The gun’s chatter continued unabated. His plane’s engine whined, but Cope didn’t fret—he knew the specifications of dozens of aerocraft on sight alone. He knew as sure as he knew the sky was blue and the Sawteeth had snow that he could outpace that other plane in a dive.

  Now, whether he could shoot it down and prevent himself from crashing…that was a matter unto itself.

  Before he could give it much more thought, the first of his shells struck home. The enemy plane’s tail fin blew apart. But Cope didn’t let up his fire. He didn’t let go of the trigger until shells ripped through the fuselage. First he saw a spray of red, then a burst of black smoke.

  Either one would do.

  He yanked back on the yoke. His biplane’s engine growled as he strained to pull out of the dive. His altimeters told him how close he’d come—five hundred feet. Not very close to most people, but to a pilot racing along at 130 mph…

  The explosion startled him. He glanced over his right shoulder. The other plane was gone. In its place was a black stain on the side of a hill. Grass, wood frame, and canvas burned. Cope tossed a small salute to his dead opponent, whoever he’d been. He’d had to have been brave. For a bandit.

  Cope scanned the sky. He’d managed to off three targets on his own. Now the other Perch pilots—four had made it aloft, he counted—chased down the remaining three biplanes. Up ahead, Daisy and Tread’s biplanes swarmed around one of the bombers. Where was the second?

  He spotted a long line of smoke. It led to the remaining bomber. Fire consumed its fuselage as it plummeted toward the river. Two large chunks of scorched wing fluttered down behind it.

  “Thatta girl, Daisy.” Cope closed in on the last bomber. Its gunners swiveled about in metal rings, tracking Daisy and Tread’s biplanes. Keach guns flashed as they tried to shoot down their attackers.

  Cope wiped grime off his face—he’d nearly swallowed a gob of wispseed oil that had sputtered out from the engine. Steam hissed from an exhaust port. He managed to keep his goggles clean as he poured on more speed. The winds shifted, throwing his approach off. The bomber’s forward Keach guns opened up, the muzzles flashing at Cope. He juked and dodged.

  Steady.

  The bomber’s ample wings made for a nice target in his crosshairs.

  There. Now!

  He yanked on the rocket release lever. His last Hinohama shot dead center at the bomber. Cope pulled back on the yoke. A loud popping and tearing sound hammered his ears. The canvas on his own right top wing flapped free in the breeze.

  “Clouds above!” Cope fought to gain some altitude. He was too low. He saw Daisy and Tread scatter. They didn’t want to be near the bomber when—

  The explosion slammed into the underside of Cope’s plane.

  He gritted his teeth as the force threw him up nearly a hundred feet. Black smoke billowed, and bits of flaming aerocraft hurtled by.

  “Steady, steady, steady.” Cope’s fingers ached. The smell of burnt canvas and smoldering metal was everywhere.

  Maybe that rocket hadn’t been such a splendid idea.

  Even as Cope considered crying out to one of the unseen deities everybody else liked so much, the firestorm abated. Only when his biplane stopped its gyrations did he look down.

  What was left of the bomber crashed onto a ranch, thankfully missing the house. Tiny figures ran about, shooing the wooly shadows of mastodons away from the burning heap. Flames scoured the ground, engulfing trees. “Sorry, fellas, but I’d rather it didn’t drop its load downtown,” Cope muttered.

  Cope craned his neck to find the rest of the squadron. Daisy and Tread seemed no worse for wear, and the other Perch fighters converged on their approximate location. He exhaled. No friendlies had died. “That’s some wings.”

  Now for the dirigibles. They could manage only half the speed of the aeroplanes, but were still closing the gap to Perch. Cope made a wide circling gesture with his right hand over his head—form up. The other planes formed a pair of Vs behind him.

  They all accelerated toward the dirigibles. Cope signaled to Daisy for her to take the lead. With his wing partially shredded, he wouldn’t be one for fancy maneuvers. He checked for his bullhorn—good, tucked by his seat. Once they were close enough he could use it to signal for surrender from those—

  KAROOM.

  A tremendous blast ripped the nearest dirigible neatly in two. Smaller explosions rippled fore and aft of the center, like it was being unzipped. Flame gobbled up the dark exterior skin. The internal framework was exposed for a moment. Then a second, equally deafening blast ripped through the morning air like thunder—and the other dirigible joined its brother in a flaming wreck.

  Cope choked back a curse. His own planes hadn’t fired a shot yet. So…suicide? When had he ever seen bandits blow themselves up to avoid capture? Not even Mintannic’s elite pilots—whom Cope didn’t think nearly as effective as Perch’s—could inspire such a reaction in their quarry.

  As he watched the smoldering skeletal remains collapse to the earth, Cope had to ask himself for alternative explanations.

  He found one, but he didn’t like it.

  • • •

  Winch did his best to remain calm amidst the chaos in the aerodrome. It was difficult to take notes or snap photographs with so many people shouting all around him.

  But his eyes were on the sky. He watched the dueling aeroplanes with a mixture of envy and fear. Cope’s biplane was clearly visible amongst the dancing blue and black fuselages—his bee-striped tail marked him easily. Winch sucked in a breath as Cope’s fighter launched its surprise rocket attack on the enemy formation, and later as it dove toward the ground, hot on the tail of a bandit. It was hard to imagine his brother, whom he’d just seen lounging outside the Advocate offices, putting an aeroplane through such maneuvers.

  Several pairs of aerodrome technicians shepherded branters that pulled heavy burdens on large cart wheels out onto the runway. They were ten feet long, tapered and draped with worn canvas. Winch noted how the workers angled them toward the swirling air fight in the distance. They had eight standing ready. One worker yanked the canvas off.

  It was a sleek cannon. Its barrel reached hungrily toward the sky. The technician hopped up into a metal chair attached by a framework to the right side. He unfolded an articulated arm that held a targeting crosshair. His partner opened the breech and loaded a shell from a side compartment.

  Chairman Rebekah Hawes prowled behind the workmen and their covered carts. “If they cannot stop that last bomber, you make sure we take them down!”

  Winch noted belatedly that several trustees—Borman, Trafton, and Molyneaux—waited anxiously nearby. Mayor-General Keysor and Sheriff Tedrow arrived in a grey motorwagon. In the distance, Winch could make out dozens of people more coming down Cliff Road, including several constables on branterback and by motorwagon.

  The Trestleway delegation showed up at the same time. They disembarked from a long, black motorwagon bearing the insignia of the Oriental Lodge. It fit all seven plus a driver.

  Winch photographed them as Ehrlichmann approached. The second councilor from Trestleway eyed the aerial ballet with interest. Suddenly he gasped.

  Winch spun around to look. Cope had apparently fired another rocket at the remaining bomber. The explosion launched Cope’s aerocraft higher. “Keep him from the fires, Exaltson. And not just these worldly ones,” Winch said.

  He relaxed a little when he realized all the Perch planes had survived the fight. He slipped a new plate into his camera and dumped the used one—with Ehrlichmann’s photo—into his bag. That was when he noticed the Trestleway man in the black suit looking his way. Winch stared at him. Something about his expression bothered him, though it was not the angry, intense cold of Ray’s face.

  The man in black looked up at the sky. Winch fo
llowed his gaze out to the bandit dirigibles. Then his left eye gave a sudden, noticeable twitch.

  Another, longer rumble of an explosion caught Winch by surprise. Then another. The bandit dirigibles were suddenly in their death throes. Winch was astonished. He took a photograph as swiftly as he could. Too far away for a decent image, but anything was better than missing the moment altogether.

  Did that man in black nod just then? Winch couldn’t be sure.

  “You don’t seem to be all that surprised by the appearance of these bandits, Councilor.” The undertone of Keysor’s voice was iron. Winch tucked his camera away and started jotting notes. The mayor-general was making no effort to keep his conversation discrete.

  “I told you, these are dangerous skies, Mayor-General,” Ehrlichmann said.

  “Strange timing, if I must say.” Hawes took a step toward him. She glared at Ehrlichmann. He stiffened but didn’t back away. “On the very same day we discuss a possible treaty with your city-state.”

  “Strange but not unforeseen.” Ehrlichmann pulled at his collar. His neck reddened. “I must say the—efficiency of your aeromen is to be commended.”

  Winch didn’t think he sounded all that happy.

  “Perhaps you’ll take that under advisement when you next engineer a deliberate assault on our city-state,” Hawes snapped.

  Ehrlichmann blanched. His delegation clustered close to him, like bats Winch had seen in the family greenhouses. The Perch trustees—Trafton, Borman, and Molyneaux—stood by Keysor like silent statues. Even Borman seemed surprised at the accusation.

  “Rebekah, I think that’s uncalled for,” Keysor said. A frown creased his face

  “Then you’re a jo-fired fool, Jonas.” Hawes stalked in front of Ehrlichmann without unpinning him from her gaze. “When did we ever see raiders blow themselves to smithereens?”

  Winch jotted down every word.

  The black-suited man who accompanied the Trestleway delegation posted himself between Hawes and her victims. “Ma’am, that is a foul insinuation and one for which you have no evidence.”