The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  Laurelene sank to her knees and laid the wreath on the ground, then burst into tears. “It’s my fault,” she sobbed. “I killed you at this very spot as surely as if I pulled the trigger.”

  “But he didn’t die here,” said the guard.

  Laurelene paused in mid-sob, her reddened eyes wide and her expression hardening.

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, this is the spot that he lowered his trews and shone full moon at the carbineers. That’s when they started shooting and crossed the border. He was running when I last saw him, holding his ribs with one hand and his trews with the other.”

  Laurelene stood up, slammed the wreath on the ground, and stamped on it. She clutched the guard by the lapels of his jacket.

  “Then he’s alive? Where is he?”

  “I cannot say, Semme,” replied the rather alarmed guard. “He did not return here, but that is hardly surprising. He may have tried to reach Middle Junction on foot, but the country is wild.”

  Laurelene stared down at the remains of her wreath, wondering whether or not to leave it. She finally decided that it reminded her that she had been sorry for Glasken, and that was a somewhat humiliating memory.

  “What draws you to Yarron?” asked the guard as she marched back to the border.

  “I had a whim to travel where my …” Laurelene braced herself to utter a lie. “ … friend was going.”

  “An affair of the heart?” asked the guard, who was something of a romantic.

  “An affair, yes, but my heart is not involved. Thank you for your help, young man. If all Yarronese are as polite as you then my journey will be a pleasant one indeed.”

  Back in Bartolica, Laurelene met with the five carbineers of her escort at the tramway station.

  “He is alive!” she told them. “He must be dragged back to Bartolica.”

  “Leave it to us, Semme,” the captain of her escort began.

  “No! I want this done properly. If my menfolk will not avenge my honor then I’ll do it myself.”

  12 July 3960: Western Yarron

  The twin engine, triwing regal droned slowly over the farmland of the Green River Basin on its 180-mile journey to Dorak territory from northern Cosdora. Wingcaptain Perisonian scanned the gauges amid the filigree and inlay of the instrument board, noting that both engines were at the correct temperature, oil pressure, and rate of spin. The long trip had begun before dawn, and the rising sun was to starboard.

  “We are nearing the midway point,” the navigator reported. “Were it not for the clouds we would see Middle Junction ahead and a little to port.”

  “I see it, there’s a break. Course correct, less than an hour to go. A half-hour reserve of spirit remains.”

  The steward rapped at the cockpit door, then entered.

  “The Airlord is awake,” he reported. “He wants to know when we arrive at the capital.”

  “Still three hours to go,” replied the wingcaptain. “We must land to take on fuel once over the border.”

  “That would put our arrival at nearly the tenth hour of the morning, and the Airlord has a busy schedule. You have to do better.”

  “We were ready for flight an hour before he arrived,” Perisonian retorted. “If the Airlord needed to arrive earlier you should have roused him.”

  “The Airlord was not disposed to be roused.”

  “Ah my, so the Dorak ambassador to the Cosdorans has been using his wife as an instrument of policy again?”

  “If you please, sair, keep your voice down,” hissed the steward. “You speak of the Airlord of All Dorak.”

  “Well? Go back and tell the Airlord of All Dorak that this regal is already flying as fast as is prudent along the shortest route.”

  “Wingcaptain Perisonian, I cannot take that sort of answer back to the Airlord.”

  “And I cannot run my engines hotter than they are just now. The Carbearu family does not take kindly to its engines being used for something as ignominious as transport, even if the cargo is our head of state.”

  “But the Airlord is a warden in his own right.”

  “You don’t have to explain that to my engineers guild. I do. If their compression engines show unreasonable wear, this regal will be declared blackwing for a lunar month and I shall be cooling my heels in the flyers’ reserve.”

  The steward looked longingly to the north.

  “I need to tell the Airlord something. He wants to reach the capital at 9:30. His consort will be waiting.”

  “All the more reason to fly slower.”

  “Be serious, Wingcaptain Perisonian.”

  “Have you met his consort?”

  “Wingcaptain!”

  “Well … tell him there is an emergency.”

  “What sort of an emergency?”

  He was cut short by a scatter of bullets ripping through the cabin from behind. Perisonian immediately swung the heavy regal into a turn and dived to pick up speed. The steward was flung across the cabin and crashed heavily into the navigator.

  “Go aft, strap in!” shouted Perisonian.

  “What shall I tell the Airlord?”

  “Tell him we’re under attack!”

  Perisonian caught sight of an oddly shaped, strangely thin gunwing as he banked. Instead of at its wingtips the rudders were at the end of a long boom trailing behind the main wings. There were two engines mounted in the wings, but they were impossibly thin. It vanished behind them, then began shooting again. Perisonian flung the heavy regal about, but the pursuing flyer was not taken by surprise again.

  “Find me somewhere to land, quickly!” he shouted to the navigator.

  “Middle Junction wingfield is only minutes distant.”

  “That’s a Yarronese wingfield.”

  “Pinedale is the closest Dorak wingfield, and that’s nearly as far ahead as we’ve already flown.”

  “Hell and Callbait! All right, set a course for Middle Junction. Yarron has a treaty with us for emergencies.”

  Another burst ripped into the starboard engine, which lost oil pressure and began to smoke. Perisonian reduced spirit to the engine, and it spluttered but did not quite die. Another burst raked the cabin, hitting the navigator in the leg and spraying glass into Perisonian’s face. The bursts were more frequent now, and there were cries from back in the cabin where the Airlord and steward sat helplessly.

  “Airspeed eighty-seven mph,” called Perisonian. “How much longer to Middle Junction?”

  “Minutes. Align on the river and bear south five degrees west when we get through the clouds.”

  The navigator unstrapped, took a carbine from the utility rack, and hobbled to the sidereal steps.

  “Where are you going?” shouted Perisonian. “Strap in.”

  “Just you keep us flying.”

  There was a roar of wind as the sidereal hatch was opened, then Perisonian heard the navigator shooting. After five shots he gave a whoop of triumph.

  “I took him! I took the bastard! He’s dropping behind—no! Damn, he’s coming up under us where I can’t see.”

  “Nearly at the clouds,” the wingcaptain called back.

  “I see him again, dark blue on top of its wings, with twin airscrews facing backwards and no air intakes. Damn thing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  There was another exchange of shots, and the second engine began to run roughly as Perisonian fought for control.

  “The Airlord is hit, the Airlord is bleeding!” called the steward from the cabin.

  “Clouds, we’re nearly at the clouds!” the wingcaptain called.

  The navigator fired another clip of bullets at their enigmatic attacker. Both engines were running hot, and there was a fire in the starboard wing.

  “He’s breaking off!” shouted the navigator. “He’s banking to port and—lost him in the clouds.”

  “Did you hit him again?”

  “Maybe … I don’t think so, but I couldn’t tell.”

  “He may think we’re dead in the
air, we’re trailing enough smoke. There! We’re through the clouds, and there’s Middle Junction. I’ll rev up the starboard engine and try to keep some height before it melts.”

  The engine roared back into life, but after thirty seconds it seized and died. That was good enough, though, it had bought them a little height. The regal approached Middle Junction on one engine, losing height and on fire, but under a degree of control. The wheels squealed on the surface of the wingfield, the airspeed dropped—then the spine of the starboard wing burned through and snapped. The regal skidded along the runway, its landing gear collapsed, scattering wreckage and spraying burning compression spirit like some huge, gaudy pinwheel.

  Perisonian woke up in an infirmary bed in Middle Junction to find that the Dorak consul was maintaining a vigil with the medics and nurses.

  “The Airlord …” whispered Perisonian. “Is the Airlord …”

  The consul came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “You are the only survivor of the crash,” he said gravely. “The Airlord was hit by three bullets, and two of them remained lodged in his body.” The consul held up a bullet between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a ten-millimeter jacketed type, by the Worland guild of Casper, Yarron.”

  Perisonian thought for a moment.

  “We were attacked … an unknown gunwing. No crest, no house name, no engineers’ guild symbol.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Only for a moment. It stayed behind, shooting unchivalrously. My navigator … climbed into the sidereal, fired at it with a carbine.”

  “He drove it off? With only a carbine?”

  “No … perhaps, no. The flyer must have thought that he had done his job as we were burning when we reached the clouds. It—it seems he was right, even though we reached the wingfield.”

  “Can you hold a pen? Can you sketch the gunwing?”

  “I’ll try. The navigator saw it clearly. He described it to me.”

  The consul snapped his fingers and a clerk came forward with a board, paper, and writing kit. Perisonian was helped up in the bed and he made several shaky representations while the clerk took notes and the consul watched. The consul watched and listened, then picked up one of the sketches and stared at it.

  “Keep working with him until he has recalled all that he can, Loric. Wingcaptain Perisonian, you are a brave man and a loyal citizen. Tell Loric all that you can remember, then rest well. I shall recommend that you be honored. Good night now, Wingcaptain.”

  Loric worked patiently with the wingcaptain for another half hour, talking little and noting everything that he said. At last Perisonian could recall no more, and Loric began to pack up.

  “I hope that I have been of some help,” said Perisonian.

  “Oh you have indeed, Wingcaptain. Rest well now.”

  Loric drew a baffle-tube pistol from his bag and shot him between the eyes.

  Minutes later a Call swept in from the Red Desert, moving west.

  14 July 3960: Middle Junction

  Envoy Sartov had been passing through Middle Junction when the Dorak airlord was assassinated. The wingfield’s adjunct briefed him on the crash the day after Perisonian had been murdered. The adjunct’s office looked out over the staging area of the wingfield, and the blackened wreckage of the regal was plainly visible from where they sat.

  “It is good to see you, Alveris, but not under these circumstances,” the adjunct began.

  “The bombing shortened my term in Condelor by two weeks, so some good came out of it,” Sartov replied. “My replacement is not even a warden.”

  “Yarronese wardens are now the rarest in Mounthaven. We need you all back to hold the dominion together.” The adjunct reached for a rock crystal jar of whisky. “Let us toast your return to Yarron,” he said, pouring out a measure.

  “Just rainwater for me, Morris. I swore off the drink on the day that I learned of the bombing.”

  “Well, indeed, that comes as good news too. We were worrying about you.” He gestured to the wreckage outside. “The Dorakian consul is screaming as if his piles were being cauterized because of that.”

  Sartov clasped his hands and leaned over the desk. “He must have your fullest cooperation, too. Dorak’s envoy in Condelor was talking about war just before I flew out this morning.”

  “The more cooperation he gets, the more evidence of a badly concealed Yarronese plot emerges,” the adjunct said, waving yet another folder from a scribe box. “I found this in the consul’s case. He had dropped it in bushes when a Call caught him outside the wingfield infirmary. I had a scribe copy the more interesting parts before everything was returned. There’s a sketch of the sailwing that attacked the regal. Look at its configuration.”

  “Odd, very odd. Impossibly thin engines, no intakes, huge wings. There is no dominion known with sailwings like this.”

  “Now look at what the consul was waving about in my office this morning.”

  “Hmm. Looks more like a Yarronese Squire 1000 sailwing.”

  “We found Yarronese bullets lodged in the wreckage of the regal. It’s an attack over Yarron, and the sole survivor and witness was murdered in a Yarronese hospital. A Yarronese bullet was extracted from his brain. The fact that a sketch of a strange gunwing turned up amid stolen notes will carry no weight beside the fabricated sketch of a far more plausible Yarronese armed sailwing.”

  “A damning body of evidence,” agreed Sartov. “The Dorakians will be even more insulted because we supposedly used a sailwing to kill him, rather than a chivalric gunwing.”

  “It is neat, very neat, suspiciously neat. The surviving Yarronese wardens are howling for blood and vengeance after what happened at Forian ten days ago, and now this happens. The evidence is overwhelming that Yarron is responsible for the Dorak airlord’s death, but our only evidence for Dorak hands behind the Forian bombing are some scraps of sacking from Dorak.”

  “Morris, I have heard nothing of such a plot.”

  “Neither have I. Nothing! Not a request to turn a blind eye to strange sailwings, nor an order to leave wingfield beacons burning all night and ignore whatever traffic passes through. Perhaps someone in Dorak wanted their airlord dead and decided to incriminate Yarron.”

  They sat looking across at the ranks for Yarronese gunwings that no longer had experienced wardens to fly them. Teenage wardens strutted about wearing their new crests and waving their hands in parodies of airborne duels. Their guildsmen sat by the gunwings, looking studiously attentive and saying nothing.

  “What can you tell me about the Dorak regional consul?” asked Sartov. “I have not had a chance to meet him as yet.”

  “A diligent but excitable man, with a long record in the diplomatic service.”

  “He was the last to see Wingcaptain Perisonian alive.”

  “Please don’t publicly imply that he did it, Sair Sartov, the Dorakians are angry enough already. As this report states, his clerk was about to enter the wingcaptain’s ward when he heard a shot, then the Call came.”

  “But he did not enter?”.

  “No. He was unarmed and there was apparently a gunman in the room. Instead he ran down the corridor of the infirmary shouting for the guards. Then the Call swept over them.”

  “Very neat, very innocent. Tell me about him.”

  “The clerk? Loric d’Kemnef’s name appears in diplomatic records going back three years. He got his present appointment a few months ago. He has a Collegian Degree from the Dorakian National Academy, with second-class honors—the sort of person who is not quite a merchant officer, but is doing the next best thing. There is one odd thing about him, though.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was in the Dorakian National Academy back in 3955, as a guest lecturer in three of the subjects in which he gained honors. I do not remember him.”

  “He may have cribbed your notes from others and missed all your lectures.”

  “True, but I am good with names and I also kept lists of all my students—one never kn
ows when one can claim profitable association when a student rises to high office. The clerk d’Kemnef is not on my lists. I’m sure he has a degree from somewhere, I mean people often forge degrees from academies with greater prestige than where they actually studied. He seems very bright and erudite, more so than the regional consul if you ask me.”

  Sartov got up and walked across to the window overlooking the Middle Junction wingfield. The remains of the regal were to the left, under armed guard and with two Dorakian site inspectors keeping watch over the Yarronese guards.

  13 July 3989: Condelor

  The Bartolican court had risen for the evening, and Rosenne was waiting at a stone canal quay for the envoys’ courtesy barge. There was to be a feast that night for no particular reason, but it was suspected that the death of the cream of Yarron’s nobility had inspired it. The Veraguay envoy was putting on weight under the onslaught of Bartolican feasting, however. She excused herself, saying that she could write an account of the distant tragedy.

  As she stood leaning against the vine-smothered stone block wall with Theresla, Roric Hannan came into sight in a small steam barge. It was a squat, stable little craft of gilded wood with scenes from the classic Chronicles of Seductions carved into the railings. A servant tended the little oil-fired steam engine and steered from inside a hide cabin while Roric languidly called commands, as if to the boat itself.

  Seeing the two women alone and waiting, Roric ordered his barge over to the quay.

  “Ho there, you’d not be waiting for the envoy’s barge, would you Semme?” he called as the barge slowed.

  “I am indeed,” Rosenne called back.

  “It’s not to be returning until five hours are past All other envoys are going to the feast—except for you and that new boy from Yarron.”

  Rosenne put her hands on her hips and looked along the canal, frowning. Roric’s barge slowed and bumped against the quay.

  “Well, perhaps I am fated to be at the feast after all,” she said. “Theresla and I wanted to write an account of that terrible disaster in Yarron.”