Mick opened it and inside was a military-issue Beretta semi-automatic pistol with a couple of clips of ammunition and a shoulder holster like the one he had worn in the attack on Caer Mort.
Mick slipped into the shoulder harness and hefted the pistol. "Thanks, guys. But didn’t you say things like this won’t work in this world?"
"Things like that work just fine," Taj said. "It’s guns that don’t work here."
"What he means is, it isn’t what it looks like," Jerry explained. "It’s actually a magic weapon that shoots lightning bolts. It just looks like a pistol."
"We could make it look like a Star Trek phaser if you’d prefer," Taj offered.
"Or something really wicked."
"I think I’ll stick with this, thanks." Gilligan slipped the weapon into his shoulder holster.
"Anyway," Taj said. "If you’ve got a few minutes we thought you might want to come down and watch the takeoff."
Mick looked at the spreadsheet hanging over the map. There were still things to do, but he realized that most of it was make-work. The ball was about to start rolling and things were moving increasingly out of the war room and into the real world.
"Yeah," he said, rising from his desk, "yeah, I’d like that."
The three made their way down into the depths of the castle and into the echoing dimness of the dragon aerie. For Mick it was the first time he had been on the aerie floor since Karin brought him here the first day. He felt a pang at the realization.
Sitting in the middle of the aerie was Charlie’s AN-2 Colt, newly equipped with a top turret, tail gunner’s position and with what looked like science-fiction machine guns sticking out on the sides. The dragons eyed the newcomer and shifted and bridled uncomfortably. Clearly they didn’t like this addition to their midst.
That thing looks like a bomber," Gilligan said. "A B AN-2?"
"Actually it’s a more like an EW AN-2," Taj said. "Except it’s magic not electronic warfare, so I guess it’s an MW AN-2."
"Why do I get the feeling this is never going to make Jane’s All The World’s Aircraft?’
"Different world?" Taj suggested.
"Here he comes," Jerry said. "And it looks like he’s got his, uh, user interface with him."
Charlie stepped between the looming monsters and marched out to the group of waiting wizards and programmers. Trailing behind him were five bat-eared demons.
"My crew," he said to the group.
The first in line was a fresh-faced demon in aviator sunglasses, an officer’s cap with a thousand-mission crush and a brown cowhide flight jacket with a Flying Tigers Blood Chit on the back and an Eighth Air Force patch on the sleeve. "Gerry O’Demon. My co-pilot"
Jerry groaned and threw an anguished look at Taj, who merely spread his hands and shrugged.
The next demon was short and slovenly with an unshaven chin and beady little eyes that never seemed to look at anyone straight on.
"That’s Joe, my tailgunner."
Next in line was an older demon wearing a baseball cap, coveralls liberally smeared with grease and chewing on a cigar stub that was disreputable even by demon standards.
"Kelly. He’s my crew chief and waist gunner."
Next was a young demon in a fleece-lined leather jacket, baseball cap and a particularly goofy grin. This is Sparks. He’s radioman and handles the other waist gun."
Finally there was a slender, rangy demon wearing a leather flight jacket and a battered Stetson.
Tex here’s the turret gunner."
With introductions made, Charlie waved his "crew" toward the airplane. "Okay, boys, saddle up and let’s ride."
"User interface, huh?" Mick said to Taj as they watched Charlie and the demons swarm over the plane doing last-minute checks.
"At least it ain’t Windows 95," Jerry said.
The best interface is the one that best fits the user," Taj added. "Can you think of a better interface for this job?"
At last Charlie and the demons were aboard and in position. Charlie slid open the cockpit window and signaled thumbs-up to the Flight Master, who controlled operations from the aerie.
As he had been taught, the Flight Master waved to Charlie to indicate all was ready. Charlie responded with a one-finger salute. The Flight Master turned to the door, dropped to one knee and brought his stiff arm down pointing at the entrance. On that signal Malus raised his staff and the big biplane shot the length of the aerie and out into the open air like an F-14 coming off the deck of a carrier. The cavern erupted into a deafening chorus of roars as the dragons protested an unfamiliar flying thing in their airspace.
As the grooms and riders fought to keep the dragons under control the plane disappeared below the rim of the entrance for a heart-stopping instant and then appeared again, climbing smoothly For altitude.
"Come, My Lords and Ladies," said Bal-Simba. "We have our own work to do." With a final glance at the rapidly vanishing speck in the center of the patch of blue, Gilligan turned and followed the group out of the aerie.
"Where’s your girlfriend?" Taj asked as they climbed the stone steps back to the main keep.
"She left a little while ago," Mick said shortly.
Deep beneath the ground the pale queen sat upon her ink-black throne. Light there was none, nor sound. Neither was needful.
Part of her was in this dark hall and other parts were in a thousand different places, sensing, observing and here and there acting. All of that was part of the dark queen just as she was part of all of it.
She could feel the pulse of the earth and the putt of the tides. She could sense the currents and eddies of magic which flowed through this place. She could sense her belly ripening even as desires ripene. All were good. All would come to fruition in the fullness of time.
The pale queen knew neither impatience nor haste. Only the pattern, changing, unfolding, becoming. That was all there was and all there needed to be.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE FLIGHT OF THE OLD CROW
The sea was gray, the sky was pale, dear blue and all was quiet. Too quiet. I shoulda had the wizard do something about engine noise, Charlie thought as the plane hissed through the air. The AN-2 was as rugged as a steel I-beam, but her Russian designers hadn’t spared any attention for non-essentials like soundproofing. Flying a Colt and being able to hear himself think was a new experience for Charlie. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
He flicked the intercom switch.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,
And wee’lll alllll stayyy freeee.
None of the demons could sing worth a damn and that wasn’t stopping any of them. In fact they’d been singing constantly since they launched out of the aerie several hours before. They’d started with "Remember Pearl Harbor" and worked their way through a medley of World War II patriotic songs, including a rousing number called "Bomben auf England" that Charlie was sure never graced the messes of the Eighth Air Force. When again. It wasn’t such a large repertoire and Charlie had decided long ago he preferred the unnatural silence of the cockpit to the racket in the intercom.