The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “Just like eleven,” laughed Serjon, stopping and sitting in the gravel of the dispersal path.

  “I beg your pardon, Commander?”

  “The stupid, upper-class, arrogant, cowardly, vindictive bastard,” laughed Serjon. “The stupid, vindictive bastard.”

  Serjon rocked back and forth, laughing until the tears ran down his face. The adjunct squatted beside him, patting him on the back and unsure of what to do next. He looked up to see the Skyfire gunwings descending and preparing to land, then beckoned for a medic.

  “Sair Commander, sair, tell me what is the matter,” he asked, turning back to Serjon.

  “Nothing is the matter, Sair Adjunct. Everything could have been, but nothing is.”

  Late that morning at special sitting of the Council of Alliance Airlords, the Airlords pronounced that Stanbury had probably died as a result of a pact of honor between himself and the Yarronese Warden Alion. While there were multitudes of unanswered questions, they concurred that Stanbury had died within an aircraft, apparently taking his life honorably. His act of honorable behavior meant there would be no trial, there would be no mass executions. The presence of Alion’s undamaged gunwing in Gunwing Hall 11 was quite another matter. In a vote that went against Sartov, the council voted the inquiry into the shooting down of Serjon’s super-regal to be an interdominion matter and it was reopened immediately. Because technically they were only investigating Alion’s previous testimony, Bronlar was not required to be present. Clerks and liaisories hurried about fetching records, guildsmen, and witnesses. As Virtrian was a witness, it was decided that Bartolica’s most senior resistance leader, Inspector General Vander Hannan, should be the Proclaimant.

  Sitting in an anteroom in the palace that he had once bombed, Serjon was painfully aware that he had given virtually no thought to Bronlar since he had set eyes on Princess. Alion had shot him down. Alion had to be humbled, Alion had to be humiliated, Alion had to be annihilated. Now he was dead. Bronlar had endured a month of sustained accusation and vilification from the mighty Serjon Warden Killer, the flyer who could even shout at Airlord Sartov and get away with it, the flyer who had refused a daystar medal because she had been awarded one. Now what of Bronlar?

  Serjon felt very small, sitting beneath the vaulted ceiling of marble and redstone which was older than his family’s guild status. He could fight, but he could also be wrong. Murals of Bartolican wardens in their various hours of triumph mocked him. They were remembered with honor, as he would be. Bronlar had been wronged by Alien, after all, the evidence suggested as much. He could testify that Alion had admitted guilt to him, but that could be seen as a crass attempt to clear Bronlar’s name by an unprovable accusation. The evidence suggested as much. Alion had defected to the Bartolicans, that had been proved, and was a strong point against him. Why am I thinking this way, Serjon wondered. Some flyers had brought home rumors that Bronlar had slept with at least one Cosdoran guildsman, while Serjon … He squeezed his eyes shut and grated his teeth as he forced an admission out from deep within himself.

  “I was saving myself for her, and I still am,” he told a dispirited-looking Bartolican warden who sat with his flight jacket unbuttoned and his collar open.

  “Di nys tik Yarronese,” he replied.

  “Sc’ay di appologor,” said Serjon.

  There was really only one thing to do, he decided. If he really loved Bronlar he had to clear her name, and at any cost. Alion’s love had run to any sacrifice, after all. Alion had chosen death and the prospect of eternal dishonor for saving the girl that he loved. Serjon noticed that his hands were cold and moist as he dragged himself toward his only possible decision. He would give up far, far more for Bronlar. A footman arrived to take him to the council.

  Serjon’s testimony before the council was superficially no different from what he had stated in Wind River. He said he had been fired on by one of his escort, and that a Yarronese triwing had overflown the wreck of the super-regal. Virtrian and several Bartolican witnesses testified that they had seen a gunwing firing on the super-regal, but none remembered its identifiers. Virtrian had remembered two gunwings, however.

  “Chancellor Virtrian,” prompted the red advocate, “did you see anything else that could have identified which of the gunwings stayed with the super-regal, and ultimately shot it down on the second attacking run?”

  “The super-regal banked to the port, and the lead broke off to starboard and flew toward the palace wingfield. The other closed in and fired.”

  “That suggests that Semme Jemarial attacked the super-regal,” concluded the red advocate. “After all, the traitor Damaric surrendered at the wingfield.”

  “Commander Feydamor, have you anything to add to what has been said by these witnesses?” prompted Vander when the red advocate had sat down.

  Sweat trickled down Serjon’s ribs as he composed his words. It was not going well for Bronlar. He was going into battle as surely as if he were in a gunwing. Alion had challenged him to fight for his beloved’s honor by his very suicide. Beloved. Serjon had never admitted that Bronlar was his beloved until a few minutes earlier, he had been too busy hating Bartolicans. He had desired her, but … how long had he loved her? Time to stop hating, he decided.

  “None, Your Honor, but may I restate my testimony to clarify the facts?” Serjon asked.

  Vander turned to the white and red advocates, but they had no objections.

  “Proceed.”

  “For the second run on the palace I banked the super-regal, then straightened out to attack with ballistic rockets and reaction guns. I saw nothing of my either of my escorts. My guildsman was in the nose, and was not in a position to observe the escorts, my dome gunner said nothing and my rear gunner just cursed.”

  Serjon looked down and frowned.

  “I … can remember it as clearly as if it just happened.” Serjon paused, beads of perspiration now on his forehead, his hands gripping the dock’s rails and his knuckles white. “My rear gunner said ‘Damn traitorous bitch!’ I shouted back ‘Keep those pipes clear!’ We, I—ah, continued the run on the palace gardens, strafing the Bartolican nobles in the gardens with my racks of reaction guns. There was double blast from ballistic rockets hitting my starboard wing. I was told later that a fragment of propellor hit the dome, killing the dome gunner. Oil pressure and power in all my starboard engines died. I heard the clang of shells hitting metal. The rear gunner gave a cry of pain and I heard no more from him. The super-regal lost height very rapidly after that. I crashed in a wide street and came to rest in a shallow canal. A Yarronese hybrid triwing overflew the wreck.”

  “This testimony is more detailed than that before the Warden Inspectorate in Wind River,” Vander pointed out.

  “The sights of Condelor and the testimonies of other witnesses has pried more detail loose from my memory,” explained Serjon.

  In the gallery above the council Ramsdel suddenly stood up and hurried out of his row to an official. The man went across to the moderator and whispered a few words. The moderator went to the Proclaimant, who looked from Serjon to the gallery, then called for a suspension of five minutes. The Airlords agreed.

  As the council reconvened Serjon was called to the stand again by the white advocate, and asked to repeat what his rear gunner had said during the attack.

  “The words were ‘Damn traitorous bitch!’” Serjon repeated.

  “You are certain of that?”

  “As certain as I am that my bomb hit the throne hall window.”

  “And you are certain that he called out before the supposed rogue gunwing opened fire.”

  “Yes. About five seconds before.”

  “Five seconds! A gunwing can fly a thousand feet in five seconds. Why did you not say this before?”

  “It’s hard to estimate time under fire. After returning to Condelor and seeing the distances between reference points around the palace I realized the true interval.”

  “Your witness,” he said to the red advoc
ate, but his opponent had no questions for Serjon.

  Ramsdel was called next.

  “You flew a gunwing on the day the super-regals went into action for the first time,” began the white advocate, “yet you were trained as a super-regal wingcaptain.”

  “Yes, I was one of the reserve wingcaptains.”

  “And you knew Vortiel, Commander Feydamor’s rear gunner, quite well.”

  “We flew nine practice missions in super-regals,” Ramsdel responded.

  “When he became excited, what was his reaction?”

  “He yelled ‘Ding, damn!’ over the pipe. It was usually when he got a fright when we flew too low, or when he hit a target kite.”

  “What else did he yell under stress?”

  “Nothing else, sair. That is why I was so surprised that Flockleader Feydamor heard him shout ‘Damn traitorous bitch!’”

  “Could it be, Warden, that he was not cursing, but that he was commenting on Semme Bronlar Jemarial leaving the super-regal, because she could see a threat that he could not? Might it not have been because she banked away to the right, to starboard, toward the wingfield well before an escort gunwing opened fire on the super-regal at extreme range?”

  Ramsdel nodded emphatically. “Yes, Sair Advocate, that is very likely the case. A lot can happen in five seconds.”

  The wingfield adjunct was called.

  “Could the triwing Slash have overflown the super-regal’s wreck after attacking the palace wingfield, while the triwing Princess had gone on to land at the palace wingfield?”

  “Yes, sair Advocate.”

  The white advocate called for Serjon to return to the dock.

  “Tell us truthfully, Commander Feydamor, why did you not testify to the Warden Inspectorate at Wind River about your rear gunner’s words and that the interval between his words and the rockets hitting was so long?”

  Serjon swallowed. “It … the words.” He stopped, staring down at the front of the dock.

  “‘Damn traitorous bitch!’ … one … two … three … four … five … Bang!” prompted the white advocate. “Quite an interval, even under fire.”

  “I forgot—No!” Serjon’s shout brought everyone to the edge of their seats. He swayed, steadied himself, then went on. “I thought the interval unimportant, it … complicated a clear case against Semme Jemarial. When Alion supposedly rescued me I became convinced that she had done the shooting, but when I saw Warden Damaric’s undamaged gunwing at the palace wingfield, I realized … that he had lied. That is why I now present them before this council.”

  There was bedlam in the observers’ gallery. Serjon was close to collapse, but he refused Vander’s offer of an adjournment. The red advocate had many questions, but Serjon’s expanded testimony was enough for the nine airlords. After a thirty-minute deliberation they reached a verdict. Vander rose to address the white and red advocates.

  “This Council of Airlords has decided by a majority of eight to one abstention in favor of the white advocate’s client, Semme Bronlar Jemarial.”

  The cheering that erupted was tolerated, by the Airlords, but Vander soon called for order so that the rest of the verdict could be heard.

  “The Airlord of Cosdora has granted Semme Bronlar Jemarial immediate release from her duties, and all nine airlords of the council hereby extend an invitation for her to fly here on the nineteenth day of this month for the grand banquet to celebrate our victory over Greater Bartolica.”

  Vander paused, and looked across to where Serjon sat with his head bowed.

  “Flock Commander Serjon Feydamor, the Airlords have voted unanimously to condemn your behavior in withholding evidence. Normally you would face charges, but given your previous good record, your dedication to Yarron’s welfare, and your role in hastening the war’s end, the charges have been withdrawn on the following conditions: that you forfeit all rank above that of flyer, that you enter Airlord Sartov’s personal service as a courier flyer, that you forfeit one half of your family wealth to the family of Semme Bronlar Jemarial, and that you dictate an unconditional apology to Semme Bronlar Jemarial which will be published in full throughout all of Mounthaven.

  “Do you accept these terms, sair Feydamor, or do you wish to have a separate hearing?”

  “I accept the terms, Your Honor,” said Serjon clearly.

  Serjon’s ordeal was not over yet. That afternoon a second hearing opened on the question of whether ground fire or Alion’s guns had actually brought down the super-regal. Several witnesses, fellow Yarronese prisoners who had been with Virtrian, thought that Alion’s gunwing had fired in the direction of the super-regal, but could not be sure that Alion had hit it. The surviving Bartolican carbineers who had been first at the super-regal’s wreckage testified that all the visible bullet holes were at the rear. Finally the results of the morning’s exhumation of the rear gunner’s grave became available and were presented. One round had struck his knee, run the length of his thigh and lodged in his pelvis. The guildmark on the base of the round showed it to be from one of Alion’s reaction guns. Bronlar was doubly exonerated, and the verdict went unanimously against the dead warden.

  “Warden Alion Damaric’s house will have its hereditary articles of flight reduced to the status of squire, and nine-tenths of its wealth will be confiscated,” Vander announced. “One-tenth will go to the cost of this council. The council also finds that Warden Alion Damaric deliberately tried to crash a stolen super-regal into Gunwing Hall Eleven, so as to destroy evidence that would have proved his defection and helped clear Semme Bronlar Jemarial. Thus Sair Serjon Feydamor and Semme Bronlar Jemarial are declared to be aggrieved parties. Sair Feydamor will be given two-tenths of Warden Alion’s estate, while Semme Bronlar Jemarial will receive the remaining six-tenths plus the title of Warden Bronlar Jemarial.”

  When Condelor had fallen Bronlar had been stationed at Kamastone wingfield at the western edge of Cosdora. Farrasond, Lesh, and Torak were there as her field guildsmen, and it was in fact Bronlar who had first brought news of Greater Bartolica’s fall on the 12th of August. At the spontaneous revel that night she confessed to Farrasond that Ryban was likely to be a problem when she returned to Vernal. The young guildmaster was very sympathetic. Ryban had something of a reputation as a seducer, although he appeared to have behaved himself in the month since he slept with Bronlar.

  Farrasond was similar in stature to Ryban, but much stronger. The quiet, dedicated guildmaster worked hard, believed in chivalric honor, and even aspired to becoming a squire one day. He also adored Bronlar, and condemned both Serjon and Ryban for taking advantage of her. He said that gossip around the guild tents had it that Serjon had parachuted into Condelor before it had fallen, in order to seek witnesses to support him against Bronlar. It was quite by accident that he had found evidence to clear her.

  “So much hate!” moaned Bronlar. “Why? What did I do to him?”

  “You once rejected Feydamor, and now he knows about you having Ryban’s button.”

  “How?” gasped Bronlar.

  “People know, people talk—Ryban has been dropping broad hints and winking. Then there’s the maid who changed the bed linen at Vernal, idlers in the street the next morning, guildsmen who crouched with an ear to the keyhole.”

  Bronlar shuddered, horrified at what they might have heard.

  “Cosdoran guildsmen chat with Yarronese flyers, Semme, so word must have reached Wind River. Feydamor can’t have you, so he wants to destroy you.”

  Later that night Bronlar took the cod-button and virginity of her guildmaster, and resolved to try to return his adoration with love. Four days later Bronlar flew west to Vernal to collect her notes for the hearing before the Council of Alliance Airlords that she knew would be soon.

  As soon as she landed at Vernal, Ryban was told that Farrasond was now her lover, and that the liaison had to be honored. He protested, pleaded, and even accused her of forsaking him for someone more senior, but Bronlar had been stung by what Farrasond had said:
Ryban had been boasting. Although miserable, she still had pride. Ryban denied the accusation, but then what else would he do?

  Bronlar was about to enter her tent on Vernal wingfield when a sailwing appeared out of the north with white and green flares burning like intense stars against the night sky. It was a courier’s colors, and the engine had the sound of a Yarronese radial. It circled the wingfield three times as the flyer took firm bearings from the beacon torches and checked the wind’s direction from a flare trailing white fumes. A permission rocket was sent up, and then the adjunct hurried across to meet the courier as he landed. Bronlar sauntered over to the pennant pole, where any announcements would be made.

  The sailwing came toward the waving torches of a wingfield directant, then stopped with the compression engine ticking over. The flyer handed out a folder to the adjunct even before he had clambered out himself.

  “Call for a translator, Old Anglian to Cosdoran,” the adjunct cried as he ran across to the lamps beside the pennant board.

  Ryban called “Aye, that I can,” as he strode forward.

  He began to read, then gave a whoop of joy.

  “Bronlar, find Bronlar!” he cried, running for the tents and waving the dispatch.

  “I’m here,” called Bronlar, and Ryban skidded, slipped and fell, then came scrambling back to her.

  “It’s all over, you’re pronounced innocent, you’re a warden, you’re rich! Feydamor confessed that he was lying! He’s even been forced to write you this apology.”

  He flung a page to the ground and jumped on it, then threw the other papers into the air. Bronlar shrieked with surprise, then joined hands with Monterbil and Ryban and danced in circles around the trampled paper. She kissed the adjunct and her guildsmen, then stood with her arms around Ryban’s neck as he read fragments of the dispatch.

  “Tell me, what, how?” she asked.

  “A bullet from Warden Alion’s guns was found in the body of the tail gunner of the super-regal when it was exhumed. Feydamor had to confess. He’s been broken down to flyer and lost most of his family’s wealth to you.”