Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra!

by Konig, Artor

  “Lunch.” Declared June, loudly and forcefully, interjecting the word into a pause in the Doctor’s dissertation. He had just said the last word on the turbo-ramjet fusion concept but was showing signs of being about to speak further on the difference between second-stage afterburner-turbo thrust, capable of breaking the sound barrier in normal flight and actual ramjet operation, where the power augmentation to the craft’s thrust was almost a thousand-fold. He looked at her, taking a moment or two to surface from his thoughts. He then glanced around the lecture hall, picking up hints of restiveness amongst the pilots.

  It must have dawned on him then that he may be out of our league, and we were not following his learned discourse all that well. Not that we were in any way unfamiliar with the finer points of jet, turbo and afterburner lore. But the fine details of ramjet technology I for one was not familiar with. Such things as electromagnetic augmentation of intake in a void environment left me way back in the dark, though the idea, when I eventually grasped it, seemed like the cat’s whiskers. The Doctor, however, relented in his attempts to force-feed us with super-technology.

  “Right-ho.” He assented cheerfully enough, “It’s high time, after all.”

  “Talking’s thirsty work.” A pilot called Andrew suggested hopefully. There were a few chuckles here and there as we all stood up to leave. Jim was opening the doors, letting in the warmer air of noon. The lights of the hall brightened, competing with the brilliance beyond the end of the passage. June dragged me into the van, heading swiftly towards the kitchen of the old farmhouse,

  “Shove the kettle on, there’s a dear, we’ll brew them a spot of tea to have while they’re waiting for their lunch. I don’t know what your standard of cooking is but the boys aren’t really fussy.” She pointed out the salient details of the old-fashioned room as she set into whipping a huge lunch together.

  It was indeed fortunate, for her, that the potential domestic capability of the base had been doubled by my arrival. The staff of the base had doubled; but the interest amongst the men was limited to actual eating; how the food arrived, as long as it arrived in good time and was reasonably palatable, did not interest them overly much. June was obviously inured to this state of affairs, pleased enough to allow any of the men to cook should the mood overwhelm them but quite capable of managing should the odds be against her.

  As her duties in the nuclear and laser laboratories were quite demanding, the meals she produced were mostly cold, with a high proportion of sandwiches. ‘As simple and as quick as possible’ was her motto but she had a deft way of producing excellent meals for all their limitations. She told me then that she made a point of producing at least five hot meals a week, usually the evening meal. She nodded at a huge pot on the stove bubbling sullenly and emitting fragrant odours, “There’s one of them; a bit of Irish stew.”

  Garreth, the small, cheerful Welshman, chose that moment to put his head round the door. His dark hair thatched a brain of unusual capability, him being the Doctor’s dynamic physics and electromagnetics man. I acknowledged June’s casual introduction by placing him in sole charge of the tea-trolley that I had just finished slapping together. Once he had disappeared, June and I set to our labours with will.

  “Eighteen by four and maybe a few extra,” June calculated swiftly, “And two or three extra sandwiches for us, just in case we’re actually hungry after making this shipload. You look a bit snackish, Cassandra; healthy appetite?”

  “Usually.” I agreed affably, “But that little lecture has left me with enough food for thought; I’m not sure that I’ll manage more than a sandwich or two.” I helped her shovel a whole load of sandwiches into the griller, a huge one that seemed especially designed for the job and one that had seen frequent, hard service.

  I marshalled another load of sandwiches onto the tray for the next round, not noticing the Doctor who had walked quietly into the kitchen to see how we were coping. “Food for thought, eh?” He mused speculatively, “I do hope I haven’t given you a dose of intellectual indigestion.”

  “You have, actually.” I told him frankly, “But that’s for the questions you haven’t answered.”

  “Well, we’ll have a chat over and after lunch; I’m sure the answers you’re looking for will come up.” He gave me a somewhat speculative look from his dark eyes as June loaded him up with the first tray of toasted cheese sandwiches. The next tray was already showing signs of sizzling. I nodded at the Doctor, quite sure that the one answer I particularly wanted to set my mind at ready; I knew it wouldn’t set my mind at rest, wouldn’t be forthcoming just yet. I turned from the griller to the cold-room, where June had directed my attention. From the chill, dark interior of that room I emerged with a tray of little plastic tubs of yoghurt; a convenient eighteen in the tray and every single one was flavoured with blackcurrants.

  “Who’s the blackcurrant addict?” I asked June as she heaved the next load of sandwiches, all oozy with melted cheese, from the griller.

  “Me.” She replied briefly, a happy grin on her lightly-freckled face, her green eyes dancing, “Some of the boys have complained that there never seems to be any other flavour coming out of the ‘fridge, since I’m in charge of groceries; but for the most part they don’t seem to mind. Hope you don’t mind; it won’t do you any good if you do.” She chuckled in reply to my resigned expression, “Don’t worry; there are all flavours at the Crag. The spoons are in that drawer.” She drifted out of the kitchen with her load before I could find out what she meant.

  I shrugged, digging into the drawer she had specified, counting out eighteen rather worse-for-wear teaspoons, plonked them onto the cardboard tray. I loaded myself up and trotted out of the kitchen, pricking up my ears to trace where the others had ensconced themselves.

  I found them comfortably arranged in the lounge, munching and chattering. With a swift glance I placed the faces I was already familiar with, seeking a spot where I could sit relatively undisturbed. For, now it had come down to it, I found myself to be rather hungry. I snaffled a handful of sandwiches and a cup of tea to replace the tray I was carrying and plonked myself down beside June.

  “The thing to remember about these craft is that they are not made out of metal in the accepted sense,” The Doctor was saying in answer to someone’s query, “That’s why they are intrinsically invisible over most of your radio spectrum. Quite undetectable as far as radar is concerned.”

  “Anything short of metal would be easy prey to some of the new weapons they’ve got floating around now.” Bernhart told him somewhat argumentatively, “Why, an armour-piercing shell would go straight through the chopper, bust open the reactor, then where would you be? Up the creek, that’s where.”

  “If they could hit a craft they couldn’t see, going at five mach,” Alex told Bernhart in a tone that showed he didn’t really care for the fellow, “If by some freaky chance they managed that in the case of a Wren, the heaviest ack-ack would simply glance off the hull of the craft, even with a head-on hit. I know; I’ve tried it. Even a one-fifty mill tungsten-tipped thermal armour piercing shell fired from a hundred yards; virtually point-blank, didn’t scratch the surface.”

  “How does that work?” Peter asked, his youthful face creased with an incredulous frown, “Tungsten-tips are jolly hot stuff!”

  “The Wren has a hull made of a substance quite similar in structure to diamond, not quite as hard but a good sight more flexible.” Alex told him, a benevolent smile splitting his face. “In fact it’s almost as flexible as one part per million parts tungsten steel, slightly less so than conventional spring steel. If something hits it hard enough to deform it, it regains its shape almost immediately. That flexibility makes it a good sight more useful than diamond; it has a high resistance to shock, for a start. A sheet of it seventy microns thick will support your weight, bending only slightly. It’s a carbo-nitrile compound of one of the rare earth metals.” Alex was obviously prepared to spend the rest of the day on his hobbyhorse, but the Doctor felt tha
t one or two other subjects ought to be addressed during the course of the afternoon.

  A good handful of the base technicians, their lunch dealt with, excused themselves to attend to their duties. Bernhart watched them leave before turning back to the Doctor, “Why can’t we go and have a look at the choppers anyway?”

  “The boys and June are busy setting the craft up, ready for flight. We’ll go for a cruise in the morning; flying the Wren is something you have to be adequately rested for. I think it would be better for you to absorb the implications of what I’ve told you, ask questions, get used to the idea of the Wren. You may not think so, but it’s a lot more difficult to get a handle on than I think you realise. Very few of you have ever been beyond the sound barrier, for a start.” His tone was mild enough to remove any hint of criticism, his expression amiable as he glanced around the room. Most of the men accepted his word; he was the Doctor after all.

  And there was a lot that they still wanted to know, each new line of inquiry expertly fielded by Roger, who had already piloted a Wren, the Doctor, or Garreth, the three members of the base’s personnel who had remained with us. It came as quite a surprise when June bustled busily into the room with a trolley laden with our supper. I looked at her guiltily but she smiled, “Nonsense, love, I would never drag you away from the party to help with this load of slops. But you might see if Jim needs a hand with the tea; he’s such a clumsy old dear.” She plonked the laden bowls, dumplings and all, on the table, as the rest of the crew ambled back into the lounge.

  I found this lack of formality pleasing even as it was new to me. My father, the Colonel Reid, had an ingrained military dignity that precluded ever eating away from the dining room or munching stew from a bowl in a person’s lap. I fed myself quickly, my ears tuned to the cheerful noise around me but I contributed nothing further to the conversation. The day had gone on a lot longer than I expected, leaving me unutterably weary although my physical exertions on that pivotal day had been slight.

  Knowledge can be converted into power, that I knew, but now I found that the potential that knowledge had locked within it exacted a cost in its imparting. The simple task of understanding all the new facts with which I had been bombarded was a wearisome toil; not that I was any slower on the uptake than anyone else in the hall. Maybe the implications had sunk in too swiftly, for it seemed that I was the only really weary person in that little lounge. I drifted out of the hall after June, whose electric and vibrant energy seemed without let as she went to fetch our dessert. I unloaded my bowl in the dishwasher and attached myself to the trolley she was loading with bowls of green ice-cream. The trolley, as with most other domestic appliances in that large and friendly kitchen, was well-used and rather the worse for its protracted service. She gave me an appraising glance before unhitching me from the trolley, shoving a bowl into my hands and setting my course for my own quarters.

  “Bed, young lady. You’re half-ghost, half-shadow and you’re too big to be carted off after you fall asleep.” She dismissed my protests with a firmly flapping hand as she wheeled the trolley back to the lounge, only stopping to glare at me as I hovered, undecided, in the hallway behind her.

  I meekly trotted off to my room, sad at missing the rest of the Doctor’s party but not feeling up to facing the rest of them again that day. I scoffed down the ice-cream, crept into the kitchen with my bowl, returning to my room with a glass of milk and a handful of biscuits that I thought nobody would miss. After a quick scrub, I flung myself onto the bed, opening the window slightly to let in the clean evening air. After setting the alarm on the bedside comlink for a few minutes before dawn, I drifted off to sleep.

  I think now, rather enviously, of how easy it was for me to find rest then; my questions had not been answered, my mind was still plagued by those nebulous dark shadows, the sense of that black wave plunging down upon me at its hellish speed was still ragging me but I was still able to find that respite; that sleep with dreams of speed and power, wild flight all the more fantastic for it being under my close control. Even the cold tightness of the ring on my finger did nothing to break my rest.

  The breezy chirrup of a cheerful and rather melodic sparrow upon my windowsill awoke me a good fifteen minutes before my buzzer had even thought of stirring. The air that drifted in through the gap in the curtain was damp and chill. I listened to the little fellow outside, gradually waking myself up to the point where I could disarm the alarm beside me. I shifted the heavy golden tresses of hair from my face, sitting up in the foggy drear to see what the bird was so happy about. The gloom that greeted me was not conducive to joy; even the late-rising stars had given this night up as a bad job. Mist poked and pried, drifting past the window in an enigmatic argent blanket. The low bulk of the lecture hall leered heavily out of the mist, almost lost against the backdrop of far hills forgotten in the darkness. I tuned my ears to sounds other than the bird but the old farmhouse appeared still to be sleeping. I wondered how many other people were in the farmhouse, knowing that it could not accommodate all of us.

  I shrugged on my dressing-gown, found my dilapidated puppy-slippers and padded off in search of a cup of tea. My brave quest ended in the kitchen where Jim was already experimenting along those very same lines.

  “And how’s my ray of sunshine this morning, then?” He enquired cheerfully, presenting me with a huge steaming mug, the slightly fruity scent of the tea triggering memories.

  “I’m all the better for a spot of blackcurrant tea.” I told him, “Thank you; this is just what I was looking for.”

  “You’re up a wee bit early though; nobody but me and doc and June are awake.” He informed me ungrammatically; trifling details like that never seemed to bother him overly much.

  “Wrong.” I told him, “I’m awake as well. There is an excitable little fellow by the name of Queeklechirp who had a lung-full of news to deposit in my left ear and he did the job quite thoroughly.”

  “Ho ha ho,” Jim chortled, “Queeklechirp eh? You know, you’re the first person in the base to give that sparrow a polite name! You should hear what Alex calls him; I certainly didn’t know a fellow could be so rude in Italian.”

  “He strikes me as being a cheerful little bird,” I told him wistfully, “Rather as if nothing’s the matter with the world, for all it’s pea-soup and icicles with which he has to deal.” I took a sip of my tea, peering through the window at the seething pall drifting past.

  “Yes, well,” Jim mused slightly melancholically, “That’s the price we have to pay for that gift of foresight.” He stood beside me at the window, looking into the heaving darkness showing the first hints of red from the east, behind us. I glanced at him, seeing signs of worry lining his face, hoping to pick up some secrets, some clue as to what the Doctor knew but would not speak about.

  June came bustling into the kitchen, managing to look professional and in-charge although she was also in her dressing-gown. She headed straight for the pot on the hob, reloading her cup with the pleasant brew, “Morning love, more blackcurrant on the way; what would you like for breakfast?” I made my choices briskly, learning that breakfast for the most part was a self-service affair; she directed me to where the various cereals were stored and let me help myself. “You’re up early, Cassandra pet; did you sleep well?”

  The Doctor marched briskly into the room armed with empty bowl and mug, greeted us impartially in an amiable tone of voice as he deposited his load in the dishwasher. He considered the matter of further cups of tea, retrieved his mug for reloading before marching out of the kitchen. “Be ready in twenty-five minutes, people, I’ll see you in the lounge.” Was his parting comment over his shoulder as he stalked energetically away, the light of battle in his eye and smokes arising from his firmly-held cup of tea.

  I dug into my bowl, drifting back over to the window to see how the day was doing. I felt light, almost cheerful, feeling no aches or tension in my body. But for the weather I was in an excellent frame of mind for flying. I was well-familiar w
ith navigational apparatus, knowing as well that the Doctor would certainly not be behind times in that respect. I scraped the last little flakes out of my bowl before turning my mind back to my tea. It had vanished from where I left it; it took me a moment to identify my mug in the microwave across the room, having its steam revived.

  One or two of the other base personnel drifted into the room in various stages of disarray, helped themselves to whatever vitals they thought would help them, drifting out again in more or less the same frame of mind. I trotted busily along to my room, barring it against any intrusion while I laboured to make myself presentable. My jeans were crisp and neat, my tee-shirt white and unmarked. The garments were somewhat loose, not restricting my movements. I plaited my hair deftly and shrugged myself into a loose, light jersey. I was well aware that the dawn beyond my window was chill but within the sealed and pressurised cabin of the Wren, with a crowd people in its confines, it would hardly be cold.

  I wondered briefly how many of us could actually get into one Wren. Then I wondered who would do the flying, the Doctor, or Roger. I shoved my license into a convenient pocket, straightened my room up before going through to the lounge.

  Only the pilots were there and then only four of them. Peter was there, serious and bright-eyed in his air force blues, James and Bernhart already arguing about something, and Ronald, quietly sipping his tea in a corner. The conversation was cheerful and brisk, their greetings affable. I sat down, peering thoughtfully into the depths of my mug of tea, waiting patiently for events to unfold.