Eyes of the Calculor

by Sean McMullen

  Like any good orator, Jemli paused for emphasis. Cheering be-

  gan, a vast rolling wave of human voices. Jemli held up her arms again and the cheering died away.

  "All of the amended Scriptures of the past two thousand years have denounced the metal engines that excrete poisons into the winds, waters, and earth, but we have just seen that electrical engines are cursed in the Deity's sight as well. As a Prophet of the Word of the Deity I denounced my own husband for the building of forbidden engines, indeed they were electrical essence generators driven by steam engines. Abominations wedded to abominations! People of Rochester, can you imagine anything worse? Even though he was my husband and the father of my children, I struck him down!"

  She paused again, but this time another sound filled the silence that should have been filled by carefully prompted cheering. It was a continuous droning sound, not unlike that of a bee, yet no bee could have been heard equally well by everyone across the entire square. It was a sound that had been absent from the skies of Rochester for two thousand years. Two small diesel engines roared steadily as they approached from the southeast.

  The crowd was by now in confusion, as were the palace guards, Dragon Librarians, city militiamen, officials, diplomats and priests. Descending over the city was one vast wing, like a giant bird with a tail but no body. The two engines roared, drinking alcohol and oilseed fuel, roaring the most flagrant and public defiance of theological orthodoxy that was possible. The thing dropped too low to be seen, as those aboard it examined the outer city, then it banked again and began approaching Inner Rochester, directly above the Avenue.

  Jemli snatched a musket from the nearest guard, raised it to her shoulder and fired at the distant but approaching sailwing. The shot went completely wild, but it was the symbolism that was important.

  "Fire on that abomination, bring it down!" she raged to the captain of her own guardsmen.

  ■ orty flintlocks and matchlocks of Prophet Jemli's personal guard discharged in a volley lasting barely two seconds. Although none of the musketeers had ever before shot at an aircraft or even knew what

  points to aim at, there were so many shots that several of them hit the fuel tanks and engines. Samondel opened the throttles wide at once, but the response was sluggish. Almost together, the port engine seized and the starboard coughed fire.

  "Trying to get clear of the city!" Samondel shouted. "We can descend in a field, then run."

  "You run, Saireme Airlord, I'll have to limp," Alarak called back.

  "You're hit? How badly?"

  "Left thigh, bleeding."

  "Losing power on starboard, port dead. Too low to fly the silk."

  "Parkland ahead, ten points to port."

  "Starboard seized!"

  "We're still on fire."

  "Going down."

  "We're over houses!"

  "Can't hold it!"

  The stall speed of the sailwing was actually slower than the top speed of a galley engine, but the tiled roofs of the Rochester slums made a less than ideal wingfield. The Swallow clipped a chimney, then another, bounced off a roof, cartwheeled up again as it began to disintegrate, then flopped heavily into a row of terraced houses. Tanks split and diesel spirit splashed over the cooking fires below and ignited. The Swallow came to rest, and within moments both the wreckage and houses beneath were burning fiercely.

  Jamondel was aware of dull aches all over her body, and the scent of straw, wood resin, and something burning. She opened her eyes and saw hay all around her. She had landed in a wagonload of hay, with her parachute and field pack still strapped to her. Raising her head, she saw Alarak sitting against a wall not far away. Several armed men were guarding him, and as Samondel watched another two men came up with a stretcher and loaded her navigator onto it. She slipped from the wagon. Almost immediately she was accosted by another militiaman.

  "You, clear off!" he shouted, waving his musket in the air

  and gesturing away from the wreckage and fire. "Nothing to see here. Go!"

  He seized her by the arm and ran her along the street, pushing her through a cordon of militiamen and sending her on her way with a whack across the backside from the barrel of his musket. Samondel stumbled clear to freedom, astonished at her escape. They had arrested Alarak but not her. Why? She was wearing the flight jacket, after all. . . but Australicans did not know about flight jackets. She had been thrown clear of the wreck but Alarak had probably been discovered crawling out of the wreckage. His jacket was dull brown, not the richly decorated masterpiece of embroidery that she wore. The parade! There were probably hundreds of elaborately dressed locals walking the city's streets.

  Samondel walked steadily away, and soon only the pall of smoke from the fire was visible above the housetops. She reached an arched gate guarded by gargoyles in a long stone wall, and beyond it were rolling lawns, gardens, and ivy-smothered buildings. More to the point, there was a group of people in a variety of colorful robes and jackets milling about at the gate. Samondel found herself walking for the group even before her mind had decided that they would be a perfect cover for the next few minutes. Those around her smiled, bowed, and tried to speak to her in what even she recognized as very bad Austaric.

  "Ah, the morning's greetings to you, Frelle, welcome to the University of Rochester," said a man with a clipboard and a char stylus. "Could I have your name, please?"

  He was speaking very slowly and distinctly, unlike the militiaman. He obviously expected her to speak Austaric badly. The University of Rochester. This was a group of foreign students!

  "Samondel Leover," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  "And your mayorate?"

  "Jarbrovia," Samondel improvised on the spot.

  The man smiled, thanked her, then stood back from the group.

  "Good people, there are still six students missing, but they are probably caught up in the confusion across at the fire," he declared,

  speaking yet more loudly and slowly. "We shall begin our induction tour of the university now, and the others will be shown around later."

  Within moments the young Airlord of Highland Bartolica, victor of several clear air encounters and commander of an expedition across over seven thousand miles of open ocean had become a young student in a foreign university, with nothing more to worry about than what to study and where to stay.

  She was soon registered as a tenant of Villiers College Residency, and was assigned a room and key. While other students were registering, she shed her field pack, parachute, and flight jacket. The day was warm, so her shirt and promenade coat would be more than adequate. She was careful to conceal her reaction pistol beneath the coat, however.

  The next stop was at the Office of Conversion, where five of Samondel's Bartolican gold coins were converted into rather a lot of Rochestrian silver after they had been weighed and assayed. Over lunch she listened as those around her discussed the mysterious flying machine that had been shot out of the sky.

  "Blatant defiance of Prophet, while visit city."

  "Use fuel engines. Big sacrilege."

  "One heretic inside of machine."

  "I have been told, not speaking Austaric, he is."

  "Captured, he was."

  "Was bleeding."

  "Machine, burned, but not engines. Iron."

  "Steel, am hearing."

  "Brave man, to fly. Dangerous."

  "Still heretic."

  By the end of the meal Samondel had established that not just steam engines but all fuel-driven engines were under some manner of religious prohibition by the dominant religions of the continent. Darien's briefing back in Mounthaven had obviously been misinterpreted. There was also a famous religious prophet visiting the city, which had made her overflight seem like the very worst possible insult. By the time she reached the Registrar's Office early in the

  afternoon, Samondel already had her course of study mapped out in her mind. The clerk smelled strongly of wine, and was taking little inte
rest in the responses to his questions.

  "Name?"

  "Samondel Leover."

  "Mayorate?"

  "Jarbrovia."

  "Qualifications?"

  "Certificate."

  "From where?"

  "Academy."

  "Honors?"

  "Yes."

  "What will you be studying?"

  "Applied Theology, Austaric Literature."

  "Mathematics?"

  "No."

  "Wise of you. Sign the register, pay two gold royals or equivalent to the bursar, then see your mentor edutors for curriculums and reading lists. They are Frelle Kolbine in the Faculty of Austaric, and Fras Saresen in the Faculty of Theology."

  The girl standing behind Samondel tapped her shoulder.

  "If you please, Frelle Leover, I am studying those same subjects. Bide a moment and we can go over together."

  Corien was plump, pretty, and had curly blond hair. Although she was from another mayorate she knew the language and had already been living in Rochester for a month. They were about to leave when three militiamen entered and spoke to the clerk. The enrollment papers of each student were checked hurriedly. Samondel was female, exotically beautiful, and had by now let out her long red hair. The militiaman questioning Samondel had a very different idea of what a warrior from a flying enemy war machine should look like.

  "The flying thing, did you see it crash?" he asked.

  "Bird machine, am very frightened."

  "Did anyone jump out of it?"

  "Fire, then boom, more fire!"

  "Did you see it hit the houses?"

  "Yes, liking your city, I am."

  "You didn't see the crash at all, did you?"

  "Boom. Big fire."

  "Damn stupid wog," concluded the militiaman as he turned away from the Airlord of Highland Bartolica and reached for Corien's enrollment papers.

  At Corien's urging, Samondel bought a slingbag from the campus market for the books and papers that she had acquired from the Faculty of Austaric. She glanced out over the city, to where the Swallow had crashed. The fire was long out, but the militiamen were still on the campus. Of all possible scenarios for contact with the Australican civilization this one was a good contender for worst, but on the other hand she had actually established herself in Australican society, could go about the city with impunity, and she even had a friend. There was no reason to flee Rochester; in fact, there was nowhere to go beyond it. The next attempt at securing horses was supposed to be well away from the city, and Samondel was not even meant to know the location that would be chosen. She was certainly marooned. Nonetheless, weeks, perhaps months as a student stretched in front of her, time during which she could learn about Australican society and religion in great detail. Eventually she would make her presence known to the authorities, but first she had a lot to learn. The first misunderstanding between their two continents had been quite sufficiently disastrous.

  There was only one more thing to do before Samondel could leave Corien, retreat to her room in Villiers College, collapse onto the bunk, and try to assimilate the barrage of strangeness that the first six hours in Rochester had poured over her. She rapped at the door of her edutor in applied theology. A voice within said, "Enter."

  The middle-aged man standing behind the desk was somewhat taller than she was, and wore a black academic cloak. He had a graying beard, and bushy hair that flared like the halo of an angel in the ancient paintings.

  "Yes, Frelles? Can I help you?" he asked.

  "Am seeking mentor edutor, Fras Saresen," Samondel replied.

  "I—oh? Are you both students of Applied Theology?"

  "Yes, I am Corien Meziar and my friend is Samondel Leover," Corien explained. "We have already enrolled and paid."

  "Ah. I see. My apologies, Frelles, but female students of Applied Theology are not common. You are only the second and third that I have encountered this year."

  "Is not allowed?" asked Samondel apprehensively.

  "It is allowed," said Saresen. "Just difficult. Have a seat; I've just worked out a curriculum for Frelle Disore, a Centralian."

  The curriculum that Saresen proposed seemed to suit their needs, and it did not take long to work through. He signed several more books out to them.

  "There is one potential problem, however," he said as Samondel and Corien stood up to go. "Several students in the lectures and tutorials are from somewhat extreme acetic cults and sects, and are prohibited from having women as colleagues or associates. This includes attending lectures and tutorials with you two."

  "Having suggestion?" asked Samondel.

  "I could arrange for the academician to lend you his notes after each lecture. As for tutorials . . ."

  "Yes. Day and time?"

  "Ah, I suppose ... I had arranged a private tutorial for Frelle Disore . . . yes, I suppose I could include you two as well."

  Once out on the lawns again Samondel discovered that Corien was also living at Villiers College. They decided to have dinner together at the college refectory that night, but Samondel was wary of letting anyone learn too much about her and wanted a few hours to think through her new persona.

  "For all the trouble, great thanks," she said as they reached her door.

  "Think nothing of it, Frelle. I really admire you, coming here alone and knowing so little Austaric."

  "You too, are being alone."

  "Ah, but my uncle is Rector of Villiers College so I am not really alone. Your accent is odd. Where are you from?"

  288 SEAN McMULlEN

  "Jarbrovia."

  "I have not heard of it."

  "Is long way north."

  ■ he charred remains of the sailwing did not take up much space once they were cut up and carefully bundled. Most of the wide and elegant flying wing had been just air enclosed by fabric and supported by lightweight wood strengthened by wire. The fuel tanks were of tin, and were almost as flimsy as the wings. The engines were another matter, but artisans were already at work dismantling them while Gentheist priests prayed and muttered exorcisms.

  Meanwhile Jemlfs guardsmen had been disarmed and bound, and a train to return them to the Woomeran border was arranged. Jemli remained free, but that freedom involved facing Overmayor Lengina.

  "Nobody! Nobody gives an order for any organized force to fire in Rochester, except for myself or my delegated officers," Lengina shouted angrily as she paced before the much taller woman in one of the palace's parlors.

  "I ordered fire upon abominations, both aviads and their machines."

  "Why?"

  "They are a danger, a pestilence. They used fueled engines to fly over the salt water where they cannot be followed."

  "Considering that the alternative is public execution in some mayorates, and lynching by vigilante mobs in others, this is understandable."

  "But if they are gathering and settling on some island beyond the saltwater there is nothing to stop them."

  "Why bother? They harm nobody."

  "They must be sponged away."

  "You are the only one who needs to be removed, Frelle. The single thing that is out of place in a tolerant state is a person who preaches intolerance. You are such a person, and I want you back over the border with all possible haste."

  I he palace guardsmen had not been far behind the city militia at the crash site, and were quick to take control of the area. The wounded survivor was apprehended and hurried away, but the Swallow's cockpit had been burned before anyone discovered that it could accommodate two. A search had found no trace of any other, so Alarak was assumed to be alone.

  Within the palace dungeons it was quickly determined that Alarak spoke nothing remotely like Austarac, and that communication with him was going to be a real problem. He had, however, escaped with more than just the clothes he was wearing. The contents of his survival pack caused consternation in the highest levels of government exceeding that of the Swallow's appearance over Rochester.

  "This was found in the a
irman's pack," said the Overmayor to Dramoren, gesturing along a polished table where Alarak's survival equipment and supplies had been laid out.

  "Ah, what am I to make of this?" asked Dramoren, unused to having his monarch give a technical briefing.

  "A pack of dried meat strips, a tin canister of water, two packs of something resembling chocolate, one contraceptive device, one small utility knife with several small tools in the handle, one signaling mirror, one thumblamp and striker, the value of about ten royals in small gold bars, a dozen gold and silver coins of some unknown mayorate, what appears to be a pouch of medicinal powders and tablets, a phial of whiskey, those three boxes of tapered cylinders made of brass and lead, and this gun."

  "This is a gunV Dramoren said doubtfully, staring down at it.

  "It is not only a gun, it is the most advanced gun on the continent, Highliber. It fires packaged charges, using the reaction of each shot to work the reloading mechanism. One palace artisan was killed in the course of determining its secrets. It has a rate of fire of several hundred shots per minute. A couple of dozen warriors armed with such pistols could take on the entire city militia and win."

  "Where did it come from?" Dramoren asked.

  "Beyond the continent, Highliber. This pistol is about two hundred years ahead of our flintlocks."

  Dramoren could not disguise his astonishment.

  "Is it safe to handle?" he asked, his hands hovering over the weapon.

  "The remaining charges have been removed; you can pick it up."

  "This would be a very attractive device for our musketeers," he decided presently.

  "Technically, it is also an engine driven by fuel, and so proscribed by the Prophet's teachings."

  "Oh no, you are . . . well, yes, perhaps you are right. Technically. Is the fellow from the wreck an aviad?"

  "No, he has been examined very carefully. He appears to be from a distant human civilization of great power and energy. Come this way."

  The Overmayor led Dramoren to a very old global model of the world, one with the ancient political divisions and names labelled.