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

by Konig, Artor

  “It’s in a little green tin at the back of the shelf where I keep the tea.” June told him wickedly, “I’m glad you like the idea.”

  Jim looked at her suspiciously, looking down his nose at the little Scots girl, “You’re up to no good; that I can see.” He hefted up the pot, rising to his feet as he did so.

  Almost as one the rest of us stood up. The Doctor glanced around before leading the way out of the room, back onto the grey and gloomy airfield. I trotted at his heels, Simon and Peter just behind me. “That one Cassandra;” The Doctor told me, pointing, “Roger, take Number Three, there’s a good chap.” We split up as instructed, leaving our doubts behind us. Number Two waited patiently on H8, her blunt silver nose pointing to the northeast. I glanced over her, but could make out no differences. As Bob had just told me the five craft were identical apart from their upholstery. I reached out a hand in greeting, pleased at the way she immediately responded by opening the co-pilot’s door for me. Rain was running down her sleek flanks, a sifting of cold drizzle oozing from the sky. The air above had become black; there was a hint of thunder in the air. It didn’t worry me; in any other craft weather was a definite factor but the Wrens seemed to be stubbornly immune to any vagaries in external conditions.

  Simon strode around the craft’s nose; Peter already had the rear door open. I slipped inside, shutting the door firmly. I waited until the other two were seated and all adjustments had been made before making ready to explain the pre-flight and systems sequence to the two men.

  “Here’s June,” Simon said softly, “Open the door for her, Peter.”

  The door opened itself in response to his words, the cabin at once depressurising; a surge of new cold coming in. Rain was falling heavily now, slick and streaming down the craft’s windows.

  A splatter of cold came in with June. She had found herself another shirt, a long-sleeved one in a grim shade of brown. “Sorry for the hold-up,” She said, “I had an attack of second thoughts but Bob told me to damn well go and Bernhart told me I was a damn fool to miss the trip.”

  “At least you’re here, I’m glad for that,” I told her easily then went on with my briefing. “The jets and turbines together; they form a twin stage, the jet tube and turbine tube one on top of the other; the only difference is that the turbine is a triple-fan and directly feeds the rotors, the jet is double-fan and augments the turbine’s pressure feed. Both must be on before you get to the rotor stage. For the high-speed stage the sequence is; afterburner, wing-wrack then ramjet. The super-stage should not be activated while the rotors are free. The inertialess drive can be kicked in at any stage after the craft is off the ground; something to do with the earth causing a massive drain which the system can’t cope with. All clear?”

  “First jets and turbo then rotor; afterburner, wing-wrack, ramjet with the inertialess system once airborne. It sounds straight forward enough for me.” Simon agreed cheerfully, “Strap up, people, we’re going to feather pigeons.” He reached over his shoulders for the twin straps. I belted up, hauling down the grey helmet. I glanced back, seeing that our passengers were doing the same. I tucked my feet out of the way, placed my hands firmly on my lap and laid my life in Simon’s hands. There was nothing that could persuade me to work on his nerves with any sign of nervousness on my part.

  “HX-WREN-III Preparing to lift off.” The sound came clearly over the headphones and I looked across to the craft on H10, its blades already at flight-velocity. I relaxed, laying my head back, savouring the comfort of the ivory fittings. The stark paleness seemed to make the interior of the craft colder but the faint hint of colour in the plush fabric held slight warmth.

  Simon went through the pre-flight quickly and accurately, testing the controls for free-play and response. Peter was attentive at the controls; I could see what went on in the cabin through the monitor before me. June was still, silent, her hands clasped together. I cast my electronic eye to where number Three was already darting into the mist. The targeting of the craft followed the speck and brought it clearly into focus with deceptive ease. I read the data; already number Three was at point-seven mach. I glanced up; the blades on our craft were teasing the morbid gloom, dashing the rain to bits and shivering lightning from the clouds.

  “Jolly weather for a spin.” Simon said, catching my eye.

  “Sure is captain.” I assented affably, looking at the readouts before securing the external line, “HX-WREN-II Preparing to lift off.” I told ground-control.

  “Righto.” Bob told me, “Go get them, lass.”

  I nodded to Simon, giving him the thumbs up, “Let’s fly.” June caught her breath behind me but said nothing. The craft went up in response to his deft movements, swiftly, at a slight forward pitch, spiralling to the left. I watched the instruments; otherwise I would not have realised that we had lifted off.

  Simon headed us to the west, trying the responses of the craft, nosing her into the wind, then across, gaining height all the time. It was a pure ballet, the craft’s stately flight poetry in motion. Simon flew with his eyes intent and focussed, watching the readouts and glancing through the windscreen. The helmet obscured most of his face but I knew he was smiling. He opened up the throttle, heading the craft higher and faster, easing on the afterburners and down-playing the throttle so the augmentation of thrust was scarcely felt. There was no rain anymore; we had left all that literally hundreds of miles behind. Below the ocean was bleakly blue, above the sky was black and laced with stars. He keyed on the wing-wrack, the craft dived slightly before he found his equilibrium.

  The throttle upped itself a few notches and we were pressed into our seats. The thunder of the thrust was echoed by the thunder of ruptured sound barriers; the craft swiftly went beyond mach one, through mach two and found its limit at mach three-point-eight. Simon looked around and then reached for the ramjet controls. He eased back the throttle even as the towering thrust hurled us back. The super-stage augmentation trebled the craft’s power, hurling us in that screaming silver missile across the louring skies. The stars frowned upon us, the sun glared in white fury but we were beyond all of them, free and secure in our cage of eternal ice.

  He flicked on the life-support and the radiation shield, and then turned to look at me. “Hold tight, old thing; let’s see what this inertialess jobbie of the Doctor’s can do.” He looked at the thrust; three-hundred thousand pounds per square inch. He looked at the airspeed; mach eleven and still climbing. Then with his eye on the instruments he keyed on the last switches in the sequence.

  I shiver, returned from that transport back to here, this damned dark on the lonesome ledge. The black all around me echoes that darkening of my senses when Simon keyed that set of switches.

  There was a mighty surge of sensation, not hot or cold but using those nerves to make its presence felt. Maybe it was because we were already stupendously fast that the inertialess drive had such a deep and uncomfortable effect on us; that time was the only time I remember feeling it so strongly. Maybe it was the first time, forgotten as we became used to that emotive change. I know none of us reacted then.

  The craft bore us on in serene unconcern; the tenuous air was whipping past us but we felt nothing. It was when Simon looked once again at the airspeed that anything was said.

  “Great cat,” He ejaculated, “We seem to be in a hurry.” The airspeed stood back at miles per second but for a moment it did not register. Fifty-two miles per second, especially if no sense of motion accompanies it, has that somewhat unreal, almost meaningless magnitude. For half a breath it did mean nothing, but the old reactions keyed themselves back in and I did a bit of arithmetic. “You’d better keep your eyes open for the jolly old base then; we’ll be there in two shakes.” As I spoke, the terrain monitor showed Europe passing rapidly beneath us.

  “Right you are, Cassandra; let me see now.” He threw the stick forward and sent the craft in a half-loop, plunging the craft down towards the face of the Earth even as Britain swept under us. He gave the
half-loop a twist, pulled back and eased back on the throttle. He shut down the super-stages, arcing the craft around in a tight circle. He glanced over the ground monitor, positioning himself with practised ease, locating the base and heading that way like a terrier.

  There was a slight noise from behind, causing me to look at June through the monitor, “You enjoying the ride?” I asked her cheerfully, seeing that her face was less pale and tight than it had been before we had taken off.

  “Good Lord, I’d forgotten we had a bundle of nerves on board; my apologies, June.” Simon told her contritely.

  “Don’t you fret, love.” She told him, “This is just what the Doctor ordered. I am a fool to have sat out for so long.” Her eyes were alight, her face flushed, “The old bird is like music or something, dancing and beautiful.”

  “Yeah.” Peter agreed, “But fast and sleek as well.”

  “Music.” Simon mused, “One of the big concertos maybe; it smacks of profundity.” He levelled the craft out, immersed once more in the dreary grey clouds, thick with rain.

  “HX-WREN-II coming in; do you read?” I asked the airwaves, already burdened with frightful atmospherics.

  “All clear Cassandra,” Bob’s voice came strongly through the grey soup, “The Doctor requests that you attend to James in number Four as soon as you touch down. Peter and Simon, you two stay put and go back up as soon as you’ve changed places. Right-ho?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Simon agreed cheerfully. But then he wasn’t about to go trotting through the tempest. “Thanks, Cassandra.” He told me, “Don’t stand any nonsense from Jimmy-boy, he’ll take you for a jolly ride up the garden path if you’re not careful.”

  “I heard that.” James’ indignant voice clanged over the radio; “There aren’t any garden paths here; tell him, Cassandra!”

  “You staying, opting out, or coming with me?” I asked June bluntly, watching the smooth plane of Simon’s approach through the monitor; I could see nothing through the screen but rain.

  “It is rather cosy here.” June offered, “And I’m not so keen on that thirty-fathom thunderstorm.”

  “Thirty knot.” Peter corrected lightly.

  “Nonsense; thirty fathom.” June riposted at once, “See that puddle over there? I’m not walking through that, thank you kindly.”

  “Right-ho.” I agreed, “Can’t say I blame you. I suppose it’s just me to get soaked then.” I peered down at the murky landing field, seeing three craft arranged circle.

  “Where are you, James?” I asked aloud.

  “Here.” He replied helpfully, “In the one with blue fittings.”

  “And where is Wren number Four, the one with blue fittings?” I asked him patiently.

  “Oh, right; it’s on H2.” He said and the image of him peering around to get his bearings welled unasked and unstoppable in my mind. I chuckled softly before turning to Simon, “Can you put her down on aitch one or three, old chap? Save me a bit of a walk and some of the wet?”

  “Sure thing, Cassandra pet.” He agreed, sweeping the craft down to H1. He extended the undercarriage, levelling the craft out and lowering her gently onto the macadam.

  “Well flown, Simon; I guess you won’t have any problems in the old teacher’s couch.” I complimented him, “Aces high, Peter.” I pushed open the door, feeling the violence of the storm, cold and furious, all the more for having been in the warm and soundproof cabin. I nudged the door shut and pelted across the flooded macadam to where the silver shape of Number Four stood. James heaved open the door for me as I came slipping up. I flung myself onto the left-hand couch, slamming the foul weather out of the cabin and drawing a breath of relief. My hair was streaming with wet; whereas I had been in the rain for barely a minute it had certainly made the most of its opportunities. My shirt clung to me and my jeans were dark with wet. I peered at my bedraggled self and shook my head.

  “Ready to fly, James?” I greeted him. He looked appraisingly at me, mischief in his eyes.

  “And how,” He told me enthusiastically, “Bit of luck for me, having you here to show me the ropes.”

  “Yes, well; it’s a good day for flying a Wren.” I told him, “You’ve had a good look at your controls; nothing you need to have explained here, is there?” I decided at once to keep things strictly impersonal and to keep my mind on business.

  He looked disparagingly out of the windows, “This, good for flying?” He asked, “And whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Ho-ho,” I chuckled, “Keep your mind on the job, Jimmy. I said it’s a good day for flying a Wren, not for flying. You’re familiar with the monitors and instruments from your last flight. You don’t need to see through the window in fact,” I extended my hand to the radiation shield, causing the windows to opaque completely, “You don’t need the windows there at all. Shove your visor down and ask for multi-view.” I instructed him.

  “Gosh.” He said, turning his head one way then the other, “The Doctor sure knows his tricks. This, if nothing else, must be the pixie’s whistle.”

  “Or the cat’s whiskers.” I supplied helpfully, turning off the radiation shielding and putting on my helmet.

  “Yeah, the cat’s whiskers, or the budgie’s bugle, or…” James seemed to be drifting off.

  “Snap out of it, lad; let’s do a bit of flying before teatime or sunset or whatever.”

  “Sure thing, teach.” He agreed, “What’s the sequence and how does the pre-flight go?” His manner was still light as he snapped up the visor but he was concentrating now, his steady blue eyes expectant. I ran through the details quickly and concisely, pointing out each factor and control as I came to it. While we were thus occupied Number Three came thundering down to land smoothly and smartly on H9. James glanced up, the movement catching his attention for a moment but he immediately turned back to what I was saying. I leaned back on the comfortable dark blue of the couch, reaching for my straps. He went through the pre-flight with thorough care, activating each system as I had instructed him.

  James was a good pilot, conscientious and careful; but he wasn’t a Dancer. He lacked that final spirit of co-ordination that differed a skilled pilot from a virtuoso, that tiny bit of confidence that turned action into music. I turned my eyes from him to the instruments where I could follow his actions just as well.

  “Bernhart’s taking Andrew in Number One?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, and the doc is taking Brett in number Five. Ronald and Roger are taking Craig, Ronald in the back seat. They’re going up in Three.” He agreed; his eyes on the instruments.

  “And Peter is with Simon in Number Two; everybody’s going for a ride.” I chirped happily; “HX-WREN-IV prepared for take-off!”

  “Good show, Cassandra,” Bob told me, “Hang on a mo’ while Number One leaps aloft then it’s your turn.”

  “Right-ho.” I assented, looking through the monitor at the craft; there were only three craft still down. Number One shot up in a businesslike way. I looked at James, “On your way, old boy.”

  “Right.” He agreed, heaving the pitch stick up.

  The Wren was quick off the mark but not entirely at ease under his hands. He was distracted, expectant. I realised that he was awaiting some clear instruction from me, such as where to go and when to engage the higher stages. With a small inward sigh I brought my mind back from simple monitoring of the flight and actively participated, guiding and instructing, helping the man at the controls get used to the wide and complex functions of the craft. As he mastered each new function I carefully introduced him to the next, controlling time and again the urge to demonstrate, to take over from him. He was nervous; this was easy enough to see and I would have done him no justice by taking things out of his hands. His confidence was gradually building up as his trepidation at the power in his hands eased. “Hey,” he told me a good half-hour into the flight, “This is easy like falling down the stairs.” We had just gone through the wing-wrack for the second time, polishing up his timing and his broad
interpretation of the information the monitors were feeding to him.

  “Easy like falling down the stairs?” I demanded, “I still haven’t got that right yet.” He laughed outright, pushing the craft well into its third sound barrier. “You’re a good sort, Cassandra; thanks for being so patient with me. I know how it is with most Dancers; meaning Bernhart; he couldn’t figure out why I was such a jackass at the controls, why I couldn’t anticipate, why I needed to watch the controls instead of just knowing how the craft was and where she was going. He never could understand what it was not to be a Dancer; it must be even harder for you, being a Natural. But I do learn; I learn fast; that is how I got a nine-five rating. But I have to be taught; it doesn’t just happen. I guess I am lucky that you’re putting me through the mill rather than anyone else.”

  “I had to learn the basics, just like everyone else.” I reassured him, “I was stiff as old socks to begin with but Eddie was a saint with me; he taught me to fly, to be patient and to be persistent. The least I could do to return that patience is to be patient in my own turn at teaching. I was still nervous when old Jensen came to do my assessment; it was when the stick went dead in the emergency routine that I learnt to Dance. That was when the craft and I fused; I don’t know how to explain it; but you must have seen it plenty of times with Bernhart.”

  “I’ve seen him Dance, I’ve seen him get into and out of trouble like a storm on roller-skates; I guess I have seen what you’re trying to tell me. That first flight in the Wren though; that was the fusion wasn’t it? You were flying cold but it wasn’t cold; you had hooked up to the craft and it knew just what you were after and reacted accordingly; isn’t that right?” James glanced at me, turning the craft in a careful bank at seven thousand feet, the craft at nearly four mach. There was only one system yet to be engaged, the inertialess system. He went through the routine, slowing the craft up to sub-mach, throwing on the inertialess drive. The wave of sensation was slight but its effect on the craft’s velocity was profound. As before the Wren surged forth its speed trebling although no extra thrust had been raised. James took a good while to get used to this and I had to keep reminding him not to overplay the controls. Once the Wren did overreact, jarring around and heading into a violent dive, but I collected the controls at once, levelling the craft out and re-establishing control quickly. I handed the craft back to him in silence, showing no emotion.