ELEVEN
High-hands rode on top of warrior-class fletches. Selected for their sharp vision and sure reflexes, they were the key protectors on any ship. Nothing outflew the papio wings. But wings were expensive and lacked endurance, and one man riding astride a well-calibrated autocannon, if he had the necessary gifts, should be able to kill a wing before it finished its first attack. And that was why the papio would run out of wings, and that’s why they were sure to lose the next war.
High-hands deserved to be the elite among their ranks.
Of course wars only lived in history books and wherever confident generals played their intricate, well-practiced games. For a very long while, the military had fought only skirmishes with the papio, and the Jugular had never done even that. A middle-aged fletch, in fine repair and with a well-trained crew, it had made a thousand patrols without delivering any killing shots. Three high-hands were riding on top, each inside a gun bubble. Quyte had earned the primary seat over the bow. His eyes were first to spot Bountiful. That long forest-colored machine was emerging from the wilderness, pushing hard toward the reef. Calling down to the captain, Quyte gave the target’s position and apparent speed, and while he spoke, his hands reflexively checked his weapon, making certain that the first explosive round was ready in the breech.
Then he had finished talking and finished loading, and that’s when Quyte realized he was gasping, and the rapid, rattling of his heart made his entire chest ache.
The young man had never been political or subject to religious passions. In temperament, he was considered, if anything, too mild for his critical post. There was no pattern to his friendships, except that he was close to almost everybody on the roster. He had no great failings of character. While he knew what the old books said about the Creators and perfection, he didn’t think much about the lessons of faith and humanity’s place in the world. What was important was that he had great respect for Prima and for the military. As it happened, Quyte had seen Diamond many times in the past. The boy lived close to Shandlehome—a buckwood tree where Quyte’s family to live. Quyte’s father had spent a portion of his savings to acquire the same fine quality telescope that high-hands used in their bubbles. Every time the high-hand visited the old home, he spent some moments looking at the landing that wore a big net and that big window where Diamond could be seen playing children’s games, or playing with his monkey, or doing nothing but sleep.
Shandlehome fell two days ago. Quyte’s parents were presumed dead, along with both his sisters and their husbands and a newborn nephew.
In that, the high-hand was the same as many others.
Everybody had suffered. Almost every citizen in the District and onboard the Jugular had spent the last two days wishing miseries for their enemies. Of course some of that hatred had to be aimed at the boy. Diamond was the target of this attack, and there was always extra rage that needed someplace to gather, and why not throw obscenities at the creature that brought this rain of carnage and waste? Yet Quyte never mentioned any of those deep feelings, assuming that everyone was the same. What’s more, the gunner had fine reasons to honor his uniform and his District. He was married to a beauty he had known since school, and his wife was still alive, living near the Jugular’s primary dock, which was as far from the mayhem as possible. Also, she was fifty days pregnant. The future had become a very dangerous tangle, and it was important for Quyte to play the role of the loving, reliable husband. Two days ago, he promised his sobbing wife that he would be careful and smart, and he promised that nobody wanted war, and he meant those words when he spoke them and he believed them as well as he could believe anything. But the gunner’s nature was to have very little faith in great callings, and he was even less introspective than most of his peers, and perhaps those were reasons why he was vulnerable to wild, unpredictable shifts of mood.
Quyte saw the corona-hunter and called to the fletch’s captain, and he made his cannon ready for things that wouldn’t happen.
Then his hands weren’t busy anymore, and they started to shake. His entire body trembled. Time was empty, leaving him with all sorts of vivid thoughts, and he rolled into the next moment and the next, and ideas kept bubbling up, leaving him nowhere to escape.
The Jugular’s captain had clear orders.
Finding and intercepting Bountiful was his primary mission, and if that was accomplished, then the Archon wanted that every power short of brute force should be employed in bring the missing ship home again.
The captain, who had a well-deserved reputation for simple clear talk, had explained the mission to his disciplined crew.
Quyte understood his ship’s role and his personal responsibilities.
Three others fletches were patrolling in the formation, all to their right. Bountiful was on their left, and while signaling with flashing lights and important horns, the Jugular pushed to full speed, dropping water and climbing to intercept the runaway airship.
Quyte was watching Bountiful when the first wings appeared.
From behind him, a high-hand shouted, “Two hawkspurs under the canopy’s toes.”
He should have seen the wings earlier, and he turned surly. An instant later the papio were on top of them, using those roaring wasteland engines to slice at the air and try to ruin his courage. But unexpectedly, the intruders were a welcome change. They made the situation vivid and immediate. Quyte was a gunner again, nailed to a tough worthy job. The newfound sense of duty rode with him all the way to Bountiful. The papio were brazenly supplying cover for the corona-hunter. Whether they controlled it or not was a question for others. His duty was to watch everything, protect the men riding with him, and protect his world to the best of his ability—and every moment of training seemed to matter as he held the gun with both hands, tracking one wing and then the other until the Jugular reached a point just ahead of the corona-hunter.
Their captain ordered a full stop, and the slick triangular airship reversed engines to block the way.
Bountiful sounded its collision horn, but the captain or its pilot weren’t taking chances, dropping ballast before passing overhead, aiming for the next substantial gap in the canopy.
More papio wings appeared, three and then another pair buzzing about the scene without getting close to branches or those tough slow-moving targets.
Bountiful was climbing fast, but a second fletch had closed the gap, pushing overhead and then barring the escape route.
Again, the collision horn blew.
The third fletch pulled ahead and spun around, her nose facing Bountiful, her speed and grace matching every movement that the corona-hunter could manage.
Following protocols, the Jugular eased close to Bountiful, blocking another one of the available retreats.
The fourth fletch still had air to cross, but once it arrived, that big airship wouldn’t have anywhere to escape. Long before the harpooners and slayers and that one odd boy could make it to the reef, Bountiful would be surrounded and boarded, and that’s how the peace would be saved.
Quyte had very little to watch now. The hawkspurs couldn’t approach the canopy, and there was nothing to see among the branches. So he watched the notorious ship, and in particular the open doorway and its airborne dock. Their natural enemies were standing inside that huge room, pretending to own the place, which answered one critical question. The papio had been chasing the boy for two days, and now they had him. Quyte and the other high-hands watched the whiffbird propellers start to turn and the papio soldiers standing near the open door with weapons in hand, and then Quyte put his telescope to his right eye, discovering humans in the shadows, standing along the back wall in a neat short line.