Requiem For A Ruler Of Worlds

by Brian Daley

  Floyt had stopped exercising and was watching Inst, who'd listened to the conversation with a certain tension on his face and glanced at Alacrity several times. The breakabout hadn't noticed.

  At length, Alacrity got Tiajo's attention and began to speak. The grandam rolled her eyes to the sky, then barked something at him. Alacrity spread his hands, hunched his head down between his shoulders, and turned toward the launch stations.

  As he walked, though, Heart appeared, stopping him. Dincrist, slowly pedaling to test his ship, was in no position to take notice.

  She was stunning in an outfit all of red suede and heel-length hooded, crimson fur. She took his hand, squeezing it emphatically, and said something. Then she threw her arms around him, kissed him fleetingly but very hard, and was gone before he could reply.

  He was still dazed when he arrived at the launch slot.

  "I don't think he needs to do any warmups."

  "There's no time anyway, Sintilla," Floyt replied.

  Alacrity broke his distraction. He doffed his coat, and he and Floyt handed their proteuses over to Sintilla, every gram of weight being important in airbike racing. Besides, the instruments would only get in the way or be damaged. That left them in sweatbands, shorts, light helmets, and cycling shoes.

  They boarded, Floyt taking the rear seat, which position was still known, after centuries, as the stoker. Sintilla looked them over, then announced cheerfully, "I just know you two are going to make me rich!" She stepped back as a crew chief sealed them into the fuselage with a thermowand.

  They were seated on long, narrow saddles, Floyt directly behind Alacrity. They began fitting the cleats of their shoes into the pedal impressions and adjusting toe clips and straps.

  "Nice sendoff you got there," Floyt commented casually, his own voice sounding strange to him in the close fuselage. It was narrow, not much longer than the pedal frame, but high enough for them to sit erect.

  Alacrity looked back over his shoulder at the Terran's innocent expression for a moment, then went back to settling in. "She told me she hopes we win," he said quietly.

  Alacrity fit his shoulders into the brackets he'd have to use in order to pedal effectively; his hands held the control grips. Movements of the grips' stem also controlled movement of Thistle, so that it couldn't be used for leverage. On the control yoke were a crude altimeter, airspeed indicator, horizon indicator, and compass. Floyt was provided simple downswept Maes-type handlebars, which was fine with him.

  Since airmasks weren't needed yet, they let them dangle around their necks. Floyt found that his saddle was soft and not slick, which pleased him in view of the sweating he expected to be doing very shortly.

  Alacrity was still testing his controls. Floyt asked, "What was Dorraine saying to Seven Wars?"

  "What? Oh, something or other about that Thorn Cup thing we're all supposed to drink tonight before the Will-reading. She can't take part in the ceremony. There goes Inst."

  Manipulating the controls on his chest panel, Inst, standing almost upright, shot away into the sky at high speed.

  "Why couldn't Dorraine drink from the Cup?" Floyt persisted. "Don't the Severeemish expect it?"

  "Huh? Ho, for Fate's sake! Would you mind thinking about the race? If we lose, you can count on old Tiajo to yang us good!"

  Undoubtedly true, but Floyt had no intention of losing the race. The two began a slow cadence, pedaling at a leisurely twenty rpm, bringing the propeller up to an idle.

  Floyt's inquisitive bent made him plow on. "I'm just curious, Alacrity. If you can't remember what Dorraine said, you should just say so, not bite a man's head off."

  "Remember? Of course I remember! Uh, there's some sort of rule or stricture, from way back in her ancestors' time. Something or other about, 'Comfort those in sorrow, but look to the life hereafter, and do not drink the bitter dregs of grief.' Or something. Now will you let me alone and concentrate on the race?"

  But that's not right! Floyt thought to himself. He knew something about the royal family of Agora; that was part of the material he'd become familiar with while researching the monograph that had come to Weir's attention.

  He reached back in memory as the prop spun faster and he watched the muscles tense in the breakabout's back. The stricture ran on the order of, "Comfort those in sorrow, and, looking to the life hereafter, sweeten the bitter dregs of grief."

  An obscure stricture, yet certainly not one that Dorraine should have gotten so wrong. But why should she—"

  "Hang on!" Alacrity warned. Tiajo's hand was on the release. Floyt put thought from his mind and abandoned himself to pedaling. Their cadence rose to over ninety rpm, the prop's slightly higher. Thistle vibrated as though eager. Tiajo pressed the release. Thistle and Feather slid down their launch slots.

  And Floyt found himself flying.

  True airbike racing had begun as a sport wherein contestants began from a standing start at ground level and, by dint of soaring techniques and Homeric pedaling, covered a certain distance and reached a specified altitude, usually in a race to a higher landing spot.

  But the sport's popularity grew beyond the elite band of dedicated masochists who were actually capable of such a feat; there were those who wanted to know how it felt to be a "real" airbike racer. The launch slots were born.

  Floyt was gratified that the race wasn't the real thing. He doubted he and the breakabout would ever have gotten above ground-effect altitude.

  As it was, they soared in the orange-red light of Epiphany's dawn, the planet's strange, enchanted landscape rolling by beneath the transparent undercarriage. Floyt was ecstatic, for all the fact that Thistle was a slow and wallowing bird.

  The pedals spun and the chain whirred softly. The propeller sang. Both men breathed easily, and the dawn air was still. There was no other sound.

  "Stay centered and let me do the balancing," Alacrity repeated. Floyt calmly chalked it up to anxiety. "Pedal!" the breakabout said. And Hobart Floyt did.

  Alacrity tilted the canard and worked the other control surfaces. Thistle swung around toward the race course, Feather off her left wingtip by no more than ten meters.

  There'd been some lack of agreement on the gearing to be used. Floyt had opined that gearing too high and pedaling too slowly would be bad, needlessly fatiguing, as in bicycling. Alacrity had insisted that, in airbiking, pedaling slowly-hard and pedaling quickly-easily were equivalent. Still, he'd given in and geared Thistle to suit Floyt.

  "That's it! Keep it up!" Alacrity called back. Floyt smiled to himself. The two craft began the route, as marked, at something like twenty-five kph. Floyt didn't look about for Inst; he would be far to one side, pacing them and staying well clear. Even the most minute turbulence could have detrimental effects on the flimsy aircraft. For that reason, all aircraft in the region had been grounded for the duration of the race.

  They passed over the first of the beacons set out by staff members during the night, after the compromise had been hammered out. Floyt caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Feather was nearby. Dincrist and Kuss hunched over their handlebars, pedaling furiously, their propeller a blur. Feather pulled slightly ahead Thistle.

  Alacrity sought to increase the pace, shouting, "Don't watch them; I'll take care of that! Just pedal!"

  "That's only a surge, Alacrity. It won't last long. Let them have the lead for now."

  Alacrity thought that over as he pedaled, then complied. He held the pace, guiding them with skillful economy, loath to give up altitude for speed, since it might cost them dearly later on. Both broke into a light sweat.

  Alacrity took a moment to spot First Councilior Inst some distance starboard, aft, and below, cruising along in a standing position. The man really knew how to handle a grav-harness. He'd carefully taken up position so as to create no turbulence for the racers. Just then he was speaking into his commo headset.

  Leery of the crosswinds at higher altitudes, the airbikes began the descent into a deep, winding, heavily foreste
d river valley. Neither pilot spent much time searching for updrafts—risers. It was too wasteful of energy, altitude and speed. Glancing back under his armpit, Floyt watched the first marker beacon disappear behind them.

  They were sweating freely. The nacelle had grown hot and reeked of their perspiration. Floyt understood how such a cockpit had come to be referred to as a "nay-smell." Moisture began to fog the fuselage. They were buffeted by air currents; Alacrity fought the turbulence as they both pedaled harder. Feather was in the same dilemma.

  Floyt pedaled more effectively than Alacrity; his cardiovascular and respiratory systems were more attuned to the work, and his muscles as well. Inst moved up close, one hand on the controls on his chest panel, the other holding the winch hook ready. The jagged tops of ice trees were floating past just beneath the undercarriage. But suddenly both ships hit an updraft, gaining a miraculous two and a half meters. Inst backed off.

  "This is … a stupid sport," Alacrity panted. Floyt saved his breath. They were still thirty kilometers or so from Icarus Point, the finish line. After the forest would be an area dotted with thermal vents, where they could take on plenty of altitude if Alacrity could avoid getting a wing melted. Then, a salt-marsh delta, after which came Icarus Point. They had to husband their strength.

  The light of the star Halidome was working its way down the valley walls. Thistle's interior was like a steam bath, and her crew was losing moisture at an astounding rate. A tubular two-liter water blivet was mounted along the nacelle ceiling; Alacrity pulled down the extendable hose, took a sip without slowing, and passed it back. Floyt allowed himself a deep drink and let the hose snap back up into place.

  They were pedaling at a cadence of ninety-five rpm. Alacrity seemed to be having trouble with the controls. Floyt asked what was wrong.

  "Dincrist. Hitting his turbulence."

  Floyt hadn't considered that problem. "Then we're going to have to pass him. Ready?" He pulled on his airmask, a simple arrangement connected by an overhead tube to a small air intake in Thistle's nose.

  "Hey!" Alacrity yelped. Floyt was already hard at work, pressing down with the ball of one foot, hauling up against his toe clip with the other. He was exerting himself at a near-maximum, happy. He whooped through his mask. Alacrity did his best to hold up his end.

  Cadence climbed to one hundred. One hundred three. One hundred five. Alacrity felt a red-hot ice pick of pain in his right calf and didn't care, because Thistle was coming abreast of Feather, despite the frantic efforts of Dincrist and the Presbyter Kuss to hold their lead.

  "See if you can pull in front of them," Floyt proposed in a muffled voice. "I've got my shorts lowered."

  Alacrity didn't have the breath to find out if Floyt was serious; they both bore down.

  Thistle drew into the lead and even gained a meter and a half of altitude, bringing them into the splendor of Halidome's sunlight. Alacrity gave a breathless cheer.

  Floyt felt immortal. He pedaled on.

  The valley broadened, and tributary valleys brought in runoff. Air currents here were much more active, but the airbikes hit no headwinds, and Alacrity was an excellent pilot. He eased up the strain on his right leg, working mostly with his left.

  But the pedals seemed harder to work. He gave them a sudden burst of energy, but they resisted him. "Ho, are you okay?"

  "Yes. Are you tired? I think I can handle things if you want to rest a bit."

  "No, no. I thought you were causing the drag."

  The crank axles moved as if they were in thickening glue. Floyt gave it everything he had. Things seemed to be going well for a moment, then the pedals again started to feel as if they were seizing up.

  "Ho, it's not us," Alacrity called from the front saddle.

  "I know," the Terran answered. "The pedals? Propeller?"

  "Dunno. We can't stop to … look at 'em right now."

  Thistle was losing way. Feather drew abreast, then passed her, Dincrist sneering at them.

  "Alacrity, do you think—"

  "What else? That lowlife!" Alacrity, winded, spared a few curses for the tycoon. Floyt suspected that the breakabout's anger had little to do with the Earthservice conditioning. This was a race.

  The Terran pulled down his mask and leaned over to peer more closely at the power train. A new odor had begun to drift up from it, cutting through the sweat-fog.

  "Alacrity, what's that I smell?"

  The breakabout, pumping away madly, thighs and calves aching, perspiration blinding him, caught the odor.

  "They gummed us up somehow!" He was fighting the turbulence of Feather's backwash. "Something that … took a while to start working!"

  Floyt wondered if someone other than Dincrist was responsible for the sabotage. Maska? Tiajo herself?

  "Here comes Inst," Alacrity cried.

  The First Councillor had altered his exoskeletal posture, skimming over to them like a swimmer. He held the winch hook in his hand. He spoke into his headset mike, but nothing was coming over Alacrity's commo button.

  "Sweat must've gotten to it," the breakabout decided. He explained it to Inst with gestures. Dorraine's father gestured with his hook to the hoisting hook atop Thistle and looked at them questioningly.

  Alacrity, spent, said, "What d'you think, Ho?"

  The airbike was in a near-stall, and the pedals gave more resistance with each rotation. The ice trees waited below. "Maybe Tiajo will show us a little mercy, Alacrity. Or maybe we can prove sabotage."

  "Yeah, that's true. You're right." Alacrity gestured, and Inst floated overhead to latch on. Feather was rounding a turn far ahead.

  Thistle suddenly lurched up and forward, her wingtips bending down as Inst's grav-harness, set at maximum, took up her weight. Alacrity and Royt relaxed from their exertions, morosely watching the forest fall away below.

  "I've never had a race end like this," Floyt remarked dully.

  "Sorry, Ho. We'd have won. You had it won for us."

  "Thanks, Alacrity."

  Inst banked them from the main valley into a side one, taking on more altitude. Shortcut, Alacrity registered absently, automatically piloting the airbike so as to make Inst's task simpler. At the speed the First Councillor was maintaining, they'd be back to Frostpile in no time. He started to think of schemes, pleas, emergency measures, and possible escape dodges.

  But a short time later, Floyt interrupted his thoughts. "Alacrity, something's not right. Look at Halidome."

  "What, stellar flares?" Even if Epiphany's sun were going nova, that wouldn't add much to their already catastrophic misfortune.

  "No, no. I mean the direction. Inst is taking us away from Frostpile."

  A little late, all of Alacrity's alarms went off. No wonder the commo button wasn't working; Inst had either sabotaged it or jammed its transmissions.

  "He's behind it, isn't he?" the Terran asked in a composed voice.

  "He's one of 'em, anyway."

  "What do we do now?"

  "I could release our hook, but he'd catch us in no time. He could either burn off our wings or force us down, hard." He scanned below; the land had opened up, and there were breaks in the forest. He saw a few places where he might be able to set Thistle down. The airbike required only a very short landing strip, and he had the emergency snare with its adhesive ribbons.

  "I've got an idea, Ho."

  "Don't bother telling me it's dangerous. I like it, whatever it is."

  * * * *

  A few moments later, First Councillor Inst suddenly found himself shooting upward as Thistle released from his line. He regained control quickly, reeling in his cable and zooming down in pursuit.

  The airbike didn't appear to be trying to escape him. Indeed, Alacrity was apparently fighting hard with his controls. With no propeller power and no updrafts, Thistle had a rather unfortunate sink rate. Inst neatly matched speeds, but the hoisting hook at the top of the fuselage remained in the open position. He couldn't reattach.

  He deftly circled around for a
look. Alacrity was out of his shoulder braces, trying to pilot and at the same time help Floyt with the hook release.

  They noticed him. Alacrity hollered, "The hook's stuck open! It's broken!"

  Suspicious, he came nearer. He'd never heard of such a thing, but then he hadn't dealt with airbikes very much. "Let me see! Get your hands away from it!" The tone in his voice brooked no disobedience; they were at his mercy. Steadying the ship with one hand, Inst pressed closer to the fuselage.

  Alacrity nodded; Floyt eased back down, taking his hands from the hoist hook. It sprang closed, perfectly functional.

  Inst's face was still clouding in anger when Alacrity, feet on the controls, whipped one shoulder brace out of its socket and rammed its open end through the fuselage at the First Councillor.

  Most of the man's vital points were protected by the exoskeleton, helmet, vision enhancers, and commo headset, and so Alacrity aimed for his throat. But air currents and the minor perturbations of airbike and grav-harness made him miss. The tube plunged directly into the control panel on Inst's chest.

  The tube was thin, to save on weight; its rim bit through the cover and into the mechanism's vitals, but crumpled. Violent energy eruptions spat and writhed; it was fortunate for Alacrity that the brace was made of a nonconducting composite.

  At the same moment, Floyt punched his fist through the thin metalar, groping for Inst's blaster.

  In a split second, Inst went one way—the exoskeleton reacting to his convulsion of surprise and the damage to it—and Thistle plummeted in the other, not a craft to be kept in trim for long under such circumstances.

  Floyt, who hadn't managed to snag the pistol, now gripped his handlebar with one hand and tried to keep Alacrity in his saddle with the other, as the breakabout attempted to bring the ship under control. It may be that Floyt's toe clips and straps were the edge that saved them. Alacrity somehow righted Thistle long enough to get one shoulder into the remaining brace and toes into their clips.