Eyes of the Calculor (41 page)

"It strikes me that we should have gone to Project Tornado in the first place, rather than risking the lives of an airlord and navigator first," said the wingcaptain.

"That was considered, but it was thought that diplomacy should be given a chance first," explained Serjon. "Besides, we would have the results of two overflights to plan from by then, which could make the difference between success and failure."

"Serjon has the basics of the Australican tongue, and a small pouch of old-civilization gold coins, crucifixes, and chains, such as might be dug up by chance in ruins," said Bronlar. "As you can see, he is dressed in leather trousers and tunic under his flight jacket, such as a wilderness trapper might wear. He will also attempt to learn Airlord Samondel's fate, and if it seems safe will try to establish diplomatic contacts. Otherwise, Project Tornado will proceed."

The Albatross was lightly loaded, and it ascended from the wing-field without difficulty. By contrast, the much smaller Seaflower needed the entire length of the strip to struggle into the air, and Serjon dropped his disposable wheels while less than a foot off the

ground. Bronlar wound in the ski as they slowly rose into the brightening sky, then the Seaflower banked to take up a heading due west and rendezvous with the Albatross. The tube was already trailing for them as Serjon approached and matched speeds.

"Seaflower is already near its limit," Bronlar pointed out. "Two hundred pounds of extra compression spirit may be enough to drop us out of the sky."

"With the wheels gone and the ski wound in we have saved a little weight and drag. Prepare to open the nose hatch and grapple the tube."

Twenty minutes later the Seaflower detached the tube and the Albatross began to bank around for its return to Lake Taupo wingfield. They were still over land, and the ocean was not even in sight. Bronlar studied the chart, then took out a folder from her flight jacket.

"We need a fifteen-degree correction to the south when we reach the coast," she said.

At the west coast Serjon adjusted their course accordingly, then began to remove his leather tunic. It was very cramped in the Sea-flower's cockpit, and they had been over water for thirty minutes before Serjon was wearing his quilted shirt, embroidered flight jacket, rhea leather trousers, and down-lined parade boots.

"Bundle up that rubbish and dump it through the hatch," he said as he strapped in again. "Every ounce of weight saved is airtime that you might need."

"Even the gold?"

"Especially the gold. I have Yarronese money in my flight jacket."

With the disguise gone, Serjon checked the heading, airspeed, wind vector, and solar elevation, then did an audit on the compression spirit, engine temperature, oil pressure, and trim balance.

"Eleven hours in calm air, fourteen in the current headwind, with a five-hour margin. From what I have seen of the current weather patterns flowing over Lake Taupo, I would say you could return with a third of the compression spirit unused."

Bronlar patted his shoulder, then stretched out along the narrow access shaft through the center of the Seaflower. It was padded with

cotton quilting and she had two blankets, but it was still hard, cold, and noisy. Once Serjon was gone there would be a long, lonely, and exhausting trip back to Lake Taupo, and possibly even a night descent. The only sleep she would be getting would be on the westward leg, so even though she was not at all drowsy she closed her eyes and tried to blank her mind.

Launceston, Tasmania Island

Derjon and Bronlar had been over land for thirty-five minutes when they saw fires burning fifteen thousand feet below. Through her binoculars Bronlar could see that they were in virgin wilderness, and were in a series of regular patterns.

"Fires for clearing farmland," she said above the sound of the engines. "And I can see cultivated fields to the north."

"There should be a small capital nearby," said Serjon, unbuckling his straps. "Time to hand over."

Changing places in the confines of the sailwing's tiny cockpit was not much easier than changing clothes, but they had practiced it before. By the time Bronlar was at the controls the haze of a small city was visible, as were the softened angular patterns of overgrown ruins belonging to a much earlier and larger city.

"That is our target, you can tell from the river," said Serjon.

"Any signs of Avianese gunwings?" asked Bronlar, reaching forward and arming the two reaction guns.

"This is not Bartolica. There has not been a clear air duel in these skies for two thousand years, and besides, only the Avianese have wings of any sort here. Because we are flying, we shall be assumed to be aviads. See those mountains to the west? Drop to about two thousand feet over them, then return to the capital and circle once."

"Have you chosen a rendezvous point?"

"Sketching it now."

As they came back over the capital, Serjon could see nothing as

he crouched behind the flyer's seat. When Bronlar slid the hatch back he began to clamber in beside her.

"I'll always love you!" shouted Bronlar above the slipstream, reaching across to squeeze his arm.

Serjon took her gloved hand and kissed the leather. "No dramatics, if you please," he shouted back. "I'll be in less danger than you."

The sailwing rocked as he squeezed out of the hatch with his parachute. He turned, blew Bronlar a kiss, then jumped.

Bronlar slid the hatch shut, then banked around sharply. Serjon's parachute was open by the time she caught sight of him, and he was almost down. Too low, that was too low, she thought, yet jump too high and some idiot might decide to shoot at the lingering, tempting target. Serjon came down in a wide field, not far from some handcarts with barrels. Figures were running over to him even before his parachute had collapsed. Bronlar circled, dropping lower. The figures surrounded Serjon, they appeared to be talking. There were no rapid movements that might indicate a struggle, no puffs of smoke from their primitive flintlocks.

The Seaflower circled, then circled again. Bronlar caught sight of a twinkling light as Serjon signalled with his mirror.

/ NATIVES FRIENDLY / HAVE SEED OIL / RETURN WITH ALBATROSS 3 WEEKS / LOVE YOU /

Suddenly exhilarated, Bronlar dipped her wings, then began to climb as she turned east. This was perfect, absolutely perfect, she thought, but nevertheless she kept scanning the airspace for Avianese gunwings. She had been over the Tasman Sea for five hours before she finally disarmed her reaction guns.

Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Dy the 15th of February the material-testing venture at St. Roger's Monastery was already five days behind schedule, and very few of those who were directly involved had slept throughout the previous two days. The lead casket containing the ancient parachute was car-

ried out on a litter borne by four monks and set down beside the strength-testing frame. Prayers were said as the seal was cut open, and a choir sang "Hail, Thou Glorious Light of Reason" as the parachute was lifted out. One end was quickly fastened to the crossbeam of the frame and the other to weight-box, then the jacks were removed from beneath the box. The fabric held the twenty tons of the box without any sign of strain.

Brother Varlian ordered the crane to swing the first stone into the box. The monks of the monitor team reported that no measurable stretch was visible on their gauge. Another ton was added. No strain was recordable. At the tenth ton a slight stretch was measurable, and a cheer went up as this was announced. The weight reached thirty tons, then forty, fifty, sixty, and seventy.

"At this strength a burst will return the band to Earth in a highly elliptical orbit," said Nikalan to Rangen.

"Which gives us Armageddon within a year," replied Rangen.

"Oh, yes, even before Christmas."

The weight crept up further, and the audience and workers watched the tally weight on a large chalkboard. Another chalkboard displayed the critical strengths, and another cheer went up as eighty tons was passed.

"It will escape Earth." Rangen sighed with heartfelt relief.

"But orbit the sun on an intersecting path," Nikalan pointed out. "Someday it will be back."

"You sound like you enjoy the prospect."

"It may not happen for decades, by which time I shall be dead."

"And it might happen sooner."

"Oh, then it will be a very exciting way to die."

"Spoken like a man with most of his life behind him," retorted Rangen.

At 206 tons the fabric burst apart. There was a sharp blast and flash of light as the material gave way, then a thunderclap of sound as over two hundred tons of box and weights hit the ground after a fall of three feet. A collective gasp went up from the crowd and workers, and Varlian climbed out onto the frame and reported that the fabric was too hot to touch at the break point. Nikalan and Ran-

gen hurriedly conferred, working quickly on an abacus and chalkboard. As they stood up to speak with the abbot, Nikalan was still obviously thinking about something, but Rangen was smiling broadly.

"The Mirrorsun band should burst with enough speed to orbit it about the sun like a long-term comet," Abbot Ashman announced. "Depending on the point of breakage, the orbit will be no less than three hundred years."

The cheers from those gathered around the frame quickly spread across the monastery grounds to those in the Calculor, the kitchens, the workshops, and the fields. The monastery beamflash tower was already relaying the news to Echuca, from where it sparkled into the eyepiece of the Rushworth tower, before being retransmitted to Rochester.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Uramoren and Lengina were waiting together in the Highliber's office. A metal rabbit in the Calculor's display rack rang a bell, and Dramoren bounded to his feet. Rushing over to the paper-tape mechanism, he watched the mechanical hens begin to peck out the words /MIRRORSUN BURST 300 YEAR SOLAR ORBIT / in a tape, then freeze again.

"Three hundred years!" he shouted, tearing the tape from the ornate machine and waving it in the air. "No Armageddon for three centuries, maybe not even for thousands of years, perhaps even never."

To his surprise Lengina showed no more elation than a weak smile.

"Good news for the world, and better news for Jemli the Prophet," she said.

"What do you mean? She did not predict this."

"She has predicted that Mirrorsun will be cast into the darkness,

and that the earth will be safe. This is precisely what will happen. We have spent two million royals proving her right, and giving her massive credibility with her followers among my citizens."

Dramoren dropped into the chair before the Calculous console rack and held up the paper tape containing the good news.

"So, shall we tell people that the world has been saved for Jemli the Prophet?" he asked.

"When will the burst take place?"

"Just a moment."

Dramoren typed in several command strings, and after a minute the mechanical hens began pecking again. He heaved himself out of the chair and walked over to the paper-tape machine.

"If the bulk of Mirrorsun's band material is identical to the parachute material, and of similar thickness, then within two years."

"Then make an announcement as follows," said Lengina, who now sat pressing her finders against her eyelids. " / MIRRORSUN BURST WITHIN TWO YEARS / ARMAGEDDON NOT IN OUR LIFETIMES/ "

"As true as can be managed, but without admitting that Jemli was right," said Dramoren.

"It is the job of leaders to turn fact into politics," responded Lengina.

"Still, she has won."

"Indeed. Perhaps the Deity really does speak through her."

"What a repulsive prospect."

Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Back at Euroa, Nikalan and Rangen were clambering over the rubble beneath the frame when they noticed that the crowd of onlookers was parting. A tanned, barefoot man wearing only a burlap kilt was approaching, bowing and smiling to all as he passed. His hair and beard were very long, but both were neatly bound up with leather

lacing. In general he seemed to be considerably cleaner than the average hermit.

"Brother Nikalan, congratulations," he said genially, "I heard your apparatus discover Mirrorsun's measure."

"Liaisary Ilyire, what are you doing so far inland?" asked Nikalan.

"I have been communicating with the cetezoid creatures of the oceans too long, old friend, and what is a liaisary who does not liaise? It is time that I spoke to humans."

The abbot considered ushering the two men away to the privacy of his office, then decided that what Ilyire had to say might be intended for as many ears as possible.

"And how is your sister, the Abbess Theresla?" asked Nikalan.

"Dead, I am sad to say. The cetezoids brought her body home from the coast of North America three months ago, but by then she was two months dead and in less than wholesome condition. Still, I welcomed what was left and buried her with all proper observances. What news of Armageddon?"

"Not in our lifetimes, but it is more complex than merely that. What news of the Call?"

"The cetezoids have obviously ceased its generation, but it is more complicated than that."

"Then the Call was not stopped by God?"

"It was stopped by conscience and shame among the cetezoids. Whether the Deity was thus involved is a matter for debate, but there was no direct intervention."

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

I he mechanical hens began pecking at the paper tape again just as Dramoren and Lengina were raising their sixth tumbler of macada-mia mash brandy in a toast to their adversary's victory.

"Vorion!" shouted Dramoren, and the lackey opened the door moments later.

"Highliber?" asked Vorion, taking in the empty brandy jar, the Overmayor lying back in a reading chair, the Highliber draped over the console, the strip of paper tape on the coffee table, and the second strip still in the hole-punch machine.

"Fetch that message, I am unsatable," said Dramoren.

"He means unstable," added Lengina.

Vorion ripped off the tape and presented it to the Highliber, who regarded it for some moments.

"Better read it too."

Vorion scanned the pattern in the holes, his eyes widening. He passed it to Lengina. Lengina's crystal tumbler fell from her fingers to bounce on the thick carpet as she read the message.

/ ILYIRE APPEARED AT EUROA / REPORTS THERESLA DIED AFTER CONVINCING CETEZOIDS TO END THE CALL / ILYIRE TO PREACH TRUTH ABOUT CALL ENDING AND TOLERANCE OF ALL INTELLIGENT CREATURES /

"There is a God," mumbled Dramoren.

"Extend Ilyire my mayoral welcome, patronage, and invitation to preach wherever in the Commonwealth he feels inclined," declared Lengina, slowly, with considerable care and concentration.

I have been propositioned by three girls from your damnable martial arts guild in the past fifteen days," Martyne began as he faced Velesti across her desk in the Libris administration wing. "Would you like to explain why?"

"You have very nice pectoral and abdominal development, although your deltoids could do with some improved definition and—"

"Velesti, stop it! You are trying to set me up. Again."

"Me?"

"Yes, you! A week ago Cherlienne visited me in my office and poured out a long and depressing tale about being a skinny little girl who nobody took seriously and men shunned. When I tried to tell her that she was beautifully exotic, she was all over me, and right behind my own desk. As for Sembelia—"

"Yes, I heard."

"If ever again any of your students come to me with fears that they might be lesbians, I shall send them straight back to you!"

"I am not that sort of girl. That was rather clever, what you did for Rositana."

"She is a bright girl, she deserved to compete on level ground."

"Your trick to stay out of her bed caused the entire examination of Libris to be restructured. You are a man of influence."

"Thank you. Now stop setting me up?"

"Only when you stop acting like a monk."

"I am a monk."

"Martyne, when you go on those 'tours,' I now know perfectly well what happens. You come under fire, and you have been wounded once. Five of those around you have been killed."

"It is my work, my duty."

"Martyne, you are still a monk, within yourself at least. You eat plain food, drink light ale, sleep in a bare, undecorated room, and are so frightened of emotions that—"

"I could say the same of you."

"Yes, but I am mad and you are not."

"Velesti, I am at least as mad as you. I am merely less flamboyant about it."

"Those girls are in awe of you, Martyne, they are curious about you. Why not you, rather than some dead-wit student with a small brain, rich parents, and a large purse? They are at an amourously inquisitive age, Martyne, and so are you."

"few are living your amourous life through my body. Stop it."

"Do you prefer celibacy?"

"Of course not, but celibacy has a place in my violent and dangerous circumstances. I need to be cold and focused, I need to be ready to attack and possibly die rather than hold back because someone loves me."

"The musketeers who rode me were cold and focused, for all their lust. Do you aspire to be like them?"

"No!"

"Then tell me how you are different."

"I fight the enemy. Nobody else."

"The enemy, you say. Well, then, let me turn an enemy over to you, one who I discovered last January and have been shadowing ever since. The second member of the flying machine's crew, a flyer of fighting air machines from North America."

Martyne was suddenly a concealed cat watching a careless bird, eyes gleaming, perfectly still, muscles tense and heart racing.

"Their gunwings use fourteen millimeter reaction guns that fire hundreds of shots per minute, centuries ahead of our flintlocks. They spanned the largest ocean in the world with flying machines; the cost of the venture would have almost bankrupted the Rochestrian Commonwealth."

"Give me a name, I shall have him dead or detained within the hour," replied Martyne.

"Her name is Samondel Leover."

Shock flickered over Martyne's face like distant lightning, but passed to leave his composure intact. He rose to his feet.

"Is this some very sick joke, from the dregs of your very sick mind?"

"She is a deadly warrior, and she carries a reaction pistol that can fire hundreds of times more rapidly than the best Morelac. It is the slight bulge near the waist of the promenade coat that she always wears. Here is a reaction pistol bullet; I took several when I broke into her room in Villiers College."

Martyne examined the bullet. It was as precisely wrought as if some Rochestrian jeweler had made it as a pendant. Velesti held up a very strange contraption that was barely recognizable as a gun. A flintlock striker was positioned so as to strike with a blunt pin at the end of an open barrel. Taking the bullet back from Martyne, Velesti inserted it into the breech of the barrel, locked it down, cocked back the striker, and aimed through the open window at a nearby headless weathercock. There was a sharp, loud crack, like a swagger stick hitting the top of a desk, but no smoke or flash. A neat hole appeared in the weathercock's body.

"Very, very advanced," said Velesti. "The winsome and beautiful young Samondel is yours, Martyne, take her. I said I'd owe you a

favor for being allowed to crunch those shadowboys at the demonstration."

Martyne could feel himself hardening from within. The enemy was within view. The enemy was to be dropped with a clear, clean shot. No torture, no gloating, no rape, no looting, no boasting, just a clean capture or kill. Samondel had become a thing.

"What has she been doing? I need to make a report."

"She is studying us. Our religions, politics, customs, laws, jokes, food, and machines. She is trying to understand Rochestrian society, especially the Dragon Librarian Service. Thankless task."

"Spying."

"She approached us openly, Martyne, but we shot her down and forced her into hiding."

"Are you trying to apologize for her, Frelle?"

"That would be treason, Fras."

"Well, then, I shall have her dead or detained within the day."

Damondel was not in her room at Villiers College when Martyne knocked at the door. Going to Corien's room, Martyne found her in. She did not know where Samondel might be, but she said that her friend was due any minute, and invited him in to wait. After a half hour it became apparent that Corien was rather strongly interested in experiencing Martyne's muscular development while gazing up at the ceiling, and that Samondel was probably not due to call at all.

Martyne set out across the university lawns for the faculty buildings. It was a blazing hot February day, and being a curriculum holiday the university was closed down. Martyne went to the applied theology annex and made for his study to add some coded notes to his private files of people that he was monitoring. It was only now that he heard a thin, muffled scream. He walked in the direction. There were more screams, and pleas to be let go. They were coming from behind a fellow edutor's door. Saresen's.

Martyne shouldered the door open without either knocking or drawing his pistol. Saresen had Samondel beneath him on his couch with her arms pinned. Papers were scattered across the floor, and

Samondel's skirts had ridden up around her thighs. In a panic, Sar-esen rolled off at once, drew a knife, and lunged for Martyne. Ma-tyne blocked the knife cross-handed, wrenched his arm around and up, kneed Saresen in the face, then bent his wrist until he dropped the knife with a shriek of pain. He pushed the edutor away from him, and Saresen crashed into his own desk and fell heavily. Sa-mondel was now on her feet and had snatched her jacket from a peg. One breast was showing through a tear in her clothing, Martyne noted with involuntary interest.

"Martyne! Gun!" she shrieked as she tried to pull out something that was tangled in the inner pocket of her coat.

Martyne whirled and flung a wheelstar, pinning Saresen's hand to his flintlock. The gun discharged and Saresen fell to his knees, howling with pain. Samondel hurriedly put her coat on and began to button it.

"Did he violate you, Frelle?" asked Martyne, putting an arm around Samondel.

"Dignity only," she replied, "but had intent."

"Then I'll not kill him. Gather up your books and papers, then come with me. You now have a new edutor in Applied Theology."

Leaving Saresen to tend to his own wounds, they left the annex. Samondel kept her coat buttoned to her neck all the way to Villiers College, where they reported the incident to the Rector.

"Are you sure you did not, ah, encourage Fras Saresen?" he asked.

"Never!" she spat.

"Misconduct charges cannot be pressed in this university unless there is a witness. Girls do try to blackmail edutors, you know."

"I was a witness," Martyne pointed out. "Besides, he attacked me, too."

"But you broke into his office. He will claim he was defending this young lady from you."

"Why would I know she was in there if she was not crying for help?"

"Why, you, er, might. . . you might have a case," the Rector conceded reluctantly.

Samondel went to her room, still escorted by Martyne.

"He not caring!" she fumed.

"The academic community defends its own," he explained. "There are unwritten rules for students to learn, like girls must always go in pairs to visit an edutor. You should change, then see Corien. The Rector is a relative of hers, she will make sure that he takes action on your behalf. Besides, talking helps sponge the poison of such unpleasantness from the heart."

"No! Staying, Martyne. Must talk."

He stood with his back turned while she undressed and changed into clean and undamaged clothes. She was washing her face when Martyne noticed that her promenade coat was now hanging on a peg. She had dressed in drawstring trousers under a green leafprint tunic, and after drying her face she reached into her bag and drew out a sheaf of poorpaper on which she had neatly written her first essay in Austaric: Engine Prohibition Theology Prophets of the Late Great-winter Period.

"Am not skilled in Austaric," she began as she held the essay out.

Martyne scanned it, noting that while she was indeed not fluent in Austaric, she had addressed the topic in a logical, well-researched way.

"I would pass this," he concluded. "I would even pass it without trying to rip your clothes off. Do you wish to transfer to my supervision?"

"You are needing to ask, even?" she replied.

Quite casually, Martyne stood up and reached for her coat.

"No!" Samondel gasped as she stood up, but she dared not approach him.