Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 10



There was nothing unusual about the fact that the enemy was coming out of the sun, but what surprised Toller was the size of the attack wave. It contained at least sixty ships laid out in a protective grid pattern.

His hope that the punishment inflicted on the first invasion fleet would have been enough to end the war had been unjustified, but subsequent attacks had been on a smaller scale. Many of them had seemed like suicide missions whose purpose was to test Overland's defences in new ways. The second force had tried to get through the weightless zone at night, but they had been betrayed by the sound of their exhausts, and had been forced to retreat with heavy casualties. Others had been equipped with varieties of ultra-powerful cannon, the recoil of which had destabilised and destroyed their own ships. And on two occasions the Landers had even deployed jet fighters of their own, launching them from the sides of gondolas. At first the enemy pilots had tried engaging the machines of the three squadrons in direct aerial combat, but they had been hopeless novices compared to Toller's skilled fliers and had been slaughtered, almost to a man. In a second experiment, they had attempted to make high-speed sorties into the Inner Defence Group, evidently with the intention of ramming the stations, but again had been driven off and destroyed.

With the passage of time it had become apparent to Toller that the establishment of a permanent base in the weightless zone had given the defenders an overwhelming advantage. It was a matter for surprise that King Rassamarden had not reached the same conclusion and abandoned the unequal struggle. The only explanation Toller could think of was contained in Colonel Gartasian's report of his meeting with the Lander scouting group. Gartasian had stated that they were overweeningly arrogant, proud and unamenable to reason. Perhaps the New Men of Land, their ruler included, were belated victims of pterthacosis in ways they did not even comprehend, destined to drown in their own irrational venom.

The only noticeable step they had taken towards self-preservation was that they had begun to wear parachutes, and thus could survive the destruction of their ships. It was impossible to say if they had invented the parachute independently, or if they had copied it after finding the body of Dinnitler, the pilot whose machine had made the runaway plunge towards Land. There was also a theory that they had arrived at the design of their own fighters by piecing together the wreckage of Dinnitler's jet.

But Toller's mind was occupied with more immediate conjectures—did the appearance of a large fleet at this stage of the war betoken nothing more than a massive venting of self-destructive passion on the part of the Landers?

Or was it a sign of confidence in a new type of weapon?

Toller mulled the question over as he rode down against the sunlight at the apex of Red Squadron's formation. The sloping glass screen, a recent modification to the fighter's design, was protecting him from the worst of the icy slipstream. A furlong away on either side he could see the Blues and Greens scoring their own white trails through the spangled heavens, and the old guilt-tinged excitement began to course through him.

Far below, outlined against the great painted curvature of Land, some of the enemy fleet were already turning on their sides. The Landers no longer sailed blindly into ambush. They had developed a method of observing the sky above, probably using look-outs at the end of long tethers, and at the first sign of the fighters' condensation trails rolled their ships into varying attitudes for mutual defence. For that reason the three squadrons now went into action separately, and the style of combat had become individualistic and opportunist. Spectacular individual victories and equally spectacular deaths had ensued; legends had proliferated.

What is going to happen this time? Toller thought, his pulse quickening. Is there a soldier down there whose destiny it is to end my life?

As the array of skyships expanded across the view the fighters broke away from their formations and began to weave a basket of vapour trails around their quarry. Toller was aware of Berise Narrinder curving away to his left. There came a spattering of fire from long-range muskets, but it seemed sporadic in comparison to the usual fierce volleying, and Toller's premonition about a radical new weapon returned to him in force. He shut down his engine and waited for the fighter to coast to a halt so that he could study the skyships better. Several of the other fighters were already darting through the grid in high-speed attack runs, and he could see the orange flecks of their arrows, though as yet no balloons were on fire.

Toller reached for his binoculars, but his gauntlets and the bow tied to his left wrist made him clumsy, and it was with still unaided vision that he saw some of the enemy gondolas become surrounded with brownish specks, as though the crews were hurling dozens of missiles towards their attackers. But the specks were fluttering and beginning to move of their own volition.

Birds!

Still untangling the strap of his binoculars, Toller had a moment to let his mind race ahead to the question of what kind of bird the Landers would have chosen to send against human opponents. The answer came immediately—the Rettser eagle. Found in the Rettser mountains in the north of Kolcorron, the eagle had a wingspan exceeding two yards, a speed which defied accurate measurement, and the ability to gut a deer—or a man—almost in the blink of an eye. In the past they had not been trained for hunting or warfare, even against ptertha, because of their unpredictability—but the New Men had shown themselves to have little regard for their own lives when bent on the destruction of an enemy.

Toller's first look through the glasses confirmed his fears, and a chill went through him as he waited to see what havoc the great birds, natural masters of the aerial element, would wreak among his pilots. The pattern of vapour trails abruptly changed as the pilots closest to the skyships perceived the new threat and took evasive action. Seconds dragged by, then it dawned on Toller that the battle situation was remaining strangely static. He had expected the eagles, with their incredibly fast reflexes, to begin their unstoppable attacks on the instant of sighting the human fliers—but they were remaining in the vicinity of the ships from which they had been launched.

The magnified image in the binoculars revealed a curious spectacle.

The eagles were vigorously beating their wings, but instead of being propelled forward by the action were spinning head over tail in tight circles, making little or no progress through the air. It was as though they were being held in place by some invisible agency. The more frantically they flapped their wings the faster they revolved without changing position.

Toller was so bemused by the phenomenon that more drawn-out seconds passed before he began to appreciate that in weightless conditions the eagles would never be able to fly. In the absence of gravity the equations of winged flight were no longer valid. The dominant force acting on the birds was the upward thrust from their wings, and without weight to counterbalance it they were thrown into continuous backward rolls. An intelligent creature might have responded by altering its wing movement to something akin to a swimmer's stroke, but the eagles—prisoners of reflex—could only go on and on with their futile expenditure of energy.

"Bad luck, Landers," Toller murmured, feeding his engine. "And now you have to pay for your mistake!"

In the ensuing minutes he saw balloon after balloon set alight, apparently without loss among his own fliers. Now that the Landers fought from stationary positions their balloons burned less readily, lacking a flow of air to feed the blaze, and sometimes the flames extinguished themselves long before the entire envelope was consumed, though without making any difference to a ship's eventual fate.

On this occasion the battle was given a touch of the bizarre by the presence of the gyrating eagles. Their terrified shrieking formed a continuous background to the roar of fighter jets, the patter of muskets and occasional blasts from cannon. Most of them kept on spinning, mindlessly squandering their strength, but Toller noticed that some had become quiescent and were drifting with their heads tucked under their wings as though asleep. A few were inert with wings only partially furled, giving every indication of being dead, perhaps overcome by sheer panic.

Immensely gratified by the turn of events, Toller pulled clear of the white-swaddled tumult to search for a likely target and saw a pilot of his own squadron closing in on him. It was Berise Narrinder, and she was rapidly opening and closing her right hand, signalling that she wanted to talk. Puzzled, he closed his throttle and allowed the fighter to coast to a halt. Berise did likewise and the two craft drifted together, gently yawing as their control surfaces became more and more ineffective.

"What is it?" Toller said. "Do you want to bring one of the birds back for dinner?"

Berise shook her head impatiently and pulled her scarf down below her chin. "There's a ship far down below the battle zone. I'd like you to have a look at it."

He looked in the direction she was indicating, but was unable to find the ship. "It has to be an observer," he said. "The pilot was told to remain well out of trouble and return to base with a report."

"My glasses tell me it is not an ordinary ship," Berise said. "Look carefully, my lord. Use your binoculars. Look where that line of cloud crosses the Gulf of Tronom."

Toller did as instructed, and this time was able to pick out the tiny outline of a skyship. It was on its side relative to him, reinforcing his opinion that its function was to observe the outcome of the battle. He wondered if it had yet become apparent to those on board that all was far from well with their fellows.

"I see nothing unusual about it," he said. "Why are you interested?"

"What about the markings on the gondola? Can't you see the blue and grey stripes?"

After further study of the miniature shape Toller lowered his binoculars. "Your young eyes are obviously better than mine." He paused, a coolness on the nape of his neck, as the full import of Berise's words reached him. "Blue and grey were always the colours of the royal ships—but would Rassamarden have retained them?"

"Why not? They might mean something to him."

Toller nodded thoughtfully. "In spite of his declarations of contempt he seems to covet everything the old kings had. But would any ruler be foolhardy enough to venture so close to a battle?"

"I've been told that Leddravohr often led his troops—and he wasn't a New Man," Berise said through featherings of vapour. "And what about the eagles? If they had done what was required of them things would probably have gone very badly for us. Rassamarden may have expected to witness a famous victory."

"Your mind is as sharp as your eyes, captain." Toller gave her an approving smile.

"Compliments are all very well, my lord—but I have a more apt reward in mind."

"Assuming it is a royal ship, you want the honour of destroying it."

Berise met his gaze squarely, eyebrows drawn together. "I believe I have that right—I am the one who saw it."

"Your feelings are understandable—and I sympathise with them—but you must consider my position. If Rassamarden is on board that ship all else should be subordinated to the task of slaying him, thus bringing this war to an end. In all conscience, it is my duty to attack the ship with every fighter at my disposal."

"But you don't know that Rassamarden is there," Berise said, shifting her argument with a casual speed which reminded Toller of his wife's similar ability. "Surely it would be wrong of you to divert your forces from the main battle to pursue a single ship, especially one which in any case cannot hope to escape us."

Toller gave an exaggerated sigh. "May I at least accompany you and witness the exploit?"

"Thank you, my lord," Berise said warmly, and for once without the hint of challenge she always insinuated into the title. She immediately reached for the throttle of her red-striped machine.

"Not so fast!" Toller protested, pausing as the exhaust of a jet slewing wide of the battle made communication momentarily impossible. "First I want you to seek out Umol and Daas and bring them to me, and I will tell them what we are about. They must keep an eye on our progress. If we fail to return, they must attack that ship in force—on no account can the ship be permitted to withdraw with any of its crew or passengers still alive."

Berise tilted her head and frowned, her face a beautiful mask in the upflung light of the sun. "We are two fighters against one skyship—how can you doubt our success?"

"Because of the parachutes," Toller said. "When a skyship carries common soldiers it is enough for us to destroy the balloon. It matters little to us if they survive the drop and come back for more of the same medicine another day. But in this case the ship is of no importance—it would be less than pointless to burn the balloon, but allow Rassamarden to return safely to his pestilent kingdom. In this crucial case the balloon is not our target, nor even the gondola.

"We have to kill Rassamarden himself, and I don't need to tell you that will be a far more hazardous business than merely spiking a balloon at long range. Do you still claim the honour?"

Berise's expression was unaltered. "I am still the one who saw the ship."

A few minutes later Toller was riding down towards the distant ship, with Berise holding a parallel course, and it was then that he began to have doubts about allowing her to accompany him. The fighter pilots shared a special bond, a spirit of comradeship which surpassed anything he had previously known in ordinary military service, and she had skilfully made use of it to influence his decision. It was perhaps all right for him, half in love with death, to undertake such a dangerous mission—but what about his responsibility towards all those he commanded?

The dilemma was intensified by the fact that if he were to send Berise back to comparative safety she would jump to the conclusion that his motives were selfish, that he wanted the glory of killing Rassamarden all to himself. Most of the other fighter pilots would side with her, their impulse-governed natures allowing no options, and he dreaded the prospect of losing their esteem. Could that be the obvious nub of a childishly simple problem? Was he prepared to waste a young woman's life rather than forfeit the flattering regard of a handful of young bucks?

The only reasonable and honourable answer had to be: No!

Toller looked at Berise, preparing himself for an ordeal, then he was overwhelmed by a rush of unexpected emotion. It was a blend of affection and respect, triggered by the sight of her diminutive figure astride the streamlined bulk of the jet fighter and outlined against silver whirlpools in a dark blue infinity. It came to him that she was both courageous and intelligent, that she had certainly been ahead of him in every one of his ponderous deliberations, and that she was fully qualified to choose her own destiny. As though sensing his interest she gave him an enquiring glance, her features all but hidden by her scarf and goggles. Toller gave her a salute, which she returned, then he concentrated his thoughts on the forthcoming skirmish.

He and Berise were on a straight line between the main battle and the lone skyship. His hope had been that their condensation trails would remain unnoticed against the tangled confusion of smoke and sun-glowing vapour above, but the evidence was that keen-eyed lookouts had already spotted them. Musketeers were diving out from the gondola, tumbling to the ends of their lines, forming a sparse circle from which they could direct fire at a fighter going for the balloon's vulnerable upper surface. Their chances of disabling a pilot were not great, but the problem in this particular instance was that Berise was required to go in on a level with the musketeers in order to attack the gondola itself, and in previous encounters the Landers had proved themselves to be excellent marksmen.

A few furlongs away from the ship Toller gave the talk signal and shut down his engine, and when Berise drifted to a halt beside him he said, "Before taking any unnecessary risks, have a closer look at the gondola. Find me some evidence that Rassamarden really is on board."

Berise raised her binoculars to her eyes, was quiet for a moment and then—unexpectedly—began to laugh. "I glimpsed a crown! A glass crown! Is that what King Prad and all the others wore? Did they really walk about with ridiculous ornaments like that on their heads?"

"On certain occasions," Toller said, wondering why he had begun to feel offended. "If what you saw was the Bytran diadem it is composed principally of diamonds, and is worth—" He broke off, suffused by a savage gladness. "The fool! The puffed-up, vainglorious fool! His fondness for that little glass hat has cost him his life for certain! How many cannon shells have you?"

"The full six."

"Good! I'll take the balloon, but from the side rather than above, so that I'll be visible from the gondola. All eyes will be upon me when I loose my arrow—and that's the moment for your attack. Perhaps fate will let you burst their crystal stores on the first pass. Are you ready?"

Berise nodded. Toller made sure his pneumatic reservoir was at maximum pressure, then blew crystals into his engine and the responsive machine surged towards the skyship. He flew a little slower than he would normally have done and swept outwards into a curve which would take him past the balloon on a descending diagonal. Berise was on a steeper downward course, using her engine in short bursts which left an intermittent trail of white.

As the blue-and-grey gondola expanded in his vision Toller saw a milling of figures among the wicker partitions. He counted eight soldiers at the ends of radial lines, all with a hunched foreshortening of their upper bodies which told him they were aiming their muskets in his direction.

That's what I want, he thought, removing his right glove. That's just what I want.

He took an arrow from a quiver, ignited the tip and nocked it on to his bowstring. He gunned his engine, bracing himself against the acceleration, and dived on the balloon. The howl from the exhaust obliterated all musket reports, but he saw their toadstool billows of white. As the monstrous shape of the balloon swelled to become a curved brown wall blotting out much of the universe, he rolled the fighter to put the solidity of the engine between him and most of the enemy marksmen. Land and Overland obediently slid into new positions in the firmament.

Toller drew the bow and fired in a single practised movement, and in the same movement heard the double blast of Berise's cannon. His arrow streaked into the balloon, its line of flight vectored into an arc by his own speed. Something flicked his left leg and tufts of cottony insulation whirled away in the fighter's slipstream. He crouched low on the rounded back of the machine and burned his way out towards the stars. At a safe distance he shut down the engine and pulled into a turn which gave him a view of the battle scene.

Berise was completing a similar manoeuvre above him and to his right. Fire was spreading on one side of the Lander balloon, but although he was certain Berise's aim had been good, the gondola appeared to be undamaged. There was no way of telling what injury, if any, the iron balls passing through it had inflicted on those inside.

Berise was busy clearing the breeches of her cannon and inserting fresh shells. When she had finished she raised a hand and Toller went for the balloon again, trying to draw as much fire as possible in order to give her a second clear run. He successfully put an orange-streaming dart into the now misshapen giant and again sought out Berise in the empty sky beyond. Instead of pausing she reloaded during a sweeping turn and drove in beneath him at speed, coming up from beneath the Lander gondola.

The tethered soldiers were turning their muskets towards her as she fired both cannon. The gondola shuddered as the shot ploughed into the planking of the deck, but it remained structurally intact, and soldiers on board kept on firing through the black smoke which was gathering around the stricken craft.

Toller, who had been praying for a crystal explosion, coasted to a halt. There was a possibility that Rassamarden had been hit, but a man was a small target within the volume of a gondola, and in this instance he had to be able to claim a certain kill. Nothing else could be acceptable under the circumstances. He looked around for Berise and saw her swooping down on him in a nimbus of brilliant vapour. As she drew near he tapped his chest and pointed at the skyship, signifying that he intended to mount his own attack. She pulled down her scarf and shouted something he failed to hear above the growl of her engine. Her face was savage, almost unrecognisable. He barely had time to note that her windscreen was spidered with white lines, then she had given her engine full throttle and was dwindling into the distance—heading straight for the skyship amid an appalling blast of sound.

Toller gave an involuntary cry of protest as the fighter streaked towards the gondola and it became obvious that Berise had no intention of changing course. Barely two seconds before impact she leapt off the machine. It sledged through the wall of the gondola and struck the centrally mounted engine, driving the entire structure forward in a tumbling movement which wrapped large pieces of the still-burning balloon around it. An acceleration strut broke free and flailed off to one side while tethered soldiers were snatched into the turmoil by coiling ropes. A moment later there came a series of whooshing explosions—typical of the pikon-halvell reaction—followed by a great billowing of greenish flame. Toller knew at once that nobody aboard the gondola could possibly have escaped death.

Berise, having kicked herself into a trajectory only slightly different from that of her fighter, had disappeared into the opaque seethings of smoke, becoming lost to Toller's view. Cold with apprehension, senses overloaded, he fed his engine and flew in a semi-circle around the slow-spinning chaos, reaching the dark blue serenity beyond. At first there was no sign of Berise, then he saw a twinkling white mote which was changing position against the background of stars and silver spirals. His glasses showed that it was Berise, perhaps a mile distant and still receding, still using up the energy imparted to her by the fighter's speed.

He went after her, dreading the prospect of finding a mutilated body, adjusting his speed and direction as he drew near. The fighter had begun to wallow as it closed in on Berise, and he had to raise himself on the footrest in order to grip her arm and pull her towards him. He knew immediately that she was alive and well because she expertly took command of their relative motion, guiding herself in such a way that she ended up astride of him, face to face, arms around his neck.

He saw the manic ecstasy on her face, felt the quivering tension of her body despite the bulkiness of her skysuit, and in that moment there was nothing they could do but kiss. Berise's lips were cold, even her tongue was cold, but Toller—the man who had forsworn sexual passion for ever—was unable to stop his groin lifting up against her again and again. She clamped her legs around him and rode him eagerly for the duration of the kiss, then used both hands to push his face away from hers.

"Was I good, Toller?" she breathed. "Was that the best thing you ever saw?"

"Yes, yes, but you're lucky to be alive."

"I know, I know!" She laughed and returned to the kiss and they drifted that way for a long time, lost among the stars and luminous swirls of their private universe.

For the most part it was quiet on board the skyship. Toller had carried out the inversion manoeuvre some two hundred miles below the weightless zone, and now the ship was gently falling towards Overland. During the next few days little would be required other than periodic injections of hot gas to give the huge balloon a positive internal pressure which would keep it from falling in on itself. The bitterness of the aerial element was mitigated to some extent by a crystal-powered heater and the fact that it was now standard practice for gondolas to be lined with vellum to prevent the ingress of chill air through chinks in the walls and deck.

It was, however, still very cold within the circumscribed space of the gondola, and when Berise removed her blouse her nipples gathered into brown peaks. Toller, who was already naked and ensconced in layers of eiderdown, extended an inviting hand to her, but she held back for the moment. She was kneeling beside him, gripping one of the transverse lines which were a vital safety feature in the virtual absence of gravity.

"Are you sure about this?" she said. "You haven't been at all discreet." She was referring to Toller having announced his intention of presenting her to the King, and—instead of returning to Overland by fallbag and parachute—commandeering a skyship for just the two of them.

"Are you delaying in this way to give me the opportunity to change my mind?" He smiled and glanced at the globes of her breasts, which were buoyantly beautiful in a way which would have been impossible in normal gravity. "Or is it to prevent me changing my mind?"

Berise placed a forearm across her breasts. "I'm thinking of the Lady Gesalla. It is almost certain that she will be informed, by somebody, and I have no wish for you to look on me afterwards with cold eyes."

"The Lady Gesalla and I live in different worlds," Toller said. "We both do what it is in us to do."

"In that case…" Berise squirmed her cold little body into the quilts beside him, making him gasp with the touch of her cold fingers.

In the days and nights that followed, while the meteors flickered all around, Toller rediscovered vital aspects of his being, learned the extent to which his life had become arid and deficient in recent years. The experience was unbearably sweet and unbearably bitter at the same time, because an inner voice informed him that he was committing a form of self-murder—a spiritual suicide—while the meteors flickered all around.