by Ben Rovik
Ensie glanced over her shoulder. The long stalks of the Flicker extended behind her, sturdy metal curves tipped with the cylindrical housings for the propellers. There was more than half a meter of daylight between the fuselage and each metal arm. Not much space, but just maybe…
There was no time to think it through more than that. At this point, any plan at all was better than waiting for the Flicker to explode under her or roll on top of her. Don’t be timid, junior tech, she thought, gritting her teeth.
Ensie banked starboard with all her might.
She saw Iggy and the other Aerials on the ground back away, startled, as the Flicker made its abrupt course change. Metal twisted and splintered beneath her with a tortured sound as she skipped off the ground again. Her head flung forward and she cried out. Ensie tasted blood in her mouth as her teeth dug into her lower lip. Neither the Flicker or I can take much more of this. The meeting house was looming up in front of her. She pitched the Flicker forward, making the jump long and shallow. The wind rushing past her felt like it was going to pull her back through the seat.
It was no time at all before the Flicker was nearing the ground again, only a few meters away from the wall of the meeting house. Ensie pulled back on the handlebars, tilting the Flicker’s nose to the sky. This is going to be bad.
The rear skis clattered against the ground first, followed seconds later by the solitary ski beneath the nose. The Flicker galloped like a bucking bull and launched nearly straight up. The edges of Ensie’s vision went black as gravity compressed her head down into her neck. But she kept her eyes fixed on the peaked roof of the meeting house as it receded beneath the skis. She had to be ten meters in the air at this point. She banked the Flicker as carefully as she could just before the zenith, drifting over top of the sharp-sloped roof. The Flicker reached its peak and she felt like she was floating, time frozen in the midst of this ordeal, with sunbeams bathing her goggles and heating the sweat on her open throat.
Ensie Thalanquin turned the Flicker off.
The engine sputtered and died. The two propellers whined in protest and began to slow. Ensie was already sinking, and it was a new kind of sinking; she could feel the pull of the earth more insistently than ever, without the counterbalancing force of the propellers to insulate her from it. Panic swarmed through her gut like bees in a storm, but she kept her body still and straight as the descent picked up speed. Leaning too far to either side would overbalance her. But leaning just right, at just the right time, just might save her life.
Wind rushed past her ears. She could tell the roof was close. Ensie held her breath and glanced downwards. The roof came to a sharp wedge directly below her falling seat.
She leaned.
If she’d continued her straight-down path, the hard shingles would have split the Flicker through the middle, between the two rear skates. If she’d leaned too far, she would have capsized, plummeting head first into the ground with a concept craft on her back. The middle ground between a hundred distant disaster scenarios was tiny, but Ensie was steering herself for a landing there regardless.
The Flicker’s left propeller was the first piece of the machine to touch the building. It hooked against the sharp roof as Ensie’s chair began to tilt, dangerously close to perpendicular to the ground. But before momentum took her fully sideways, the steel arm began to take the weight of the machine. Metal groaned with the strain as the Flicker took its grip against the roof.
Ensie watched in mesmerized horror as the propeller arm, a ten-centimeter diameter pipe of hollow steel, began to bend like a sapling in the wind. Then the skis touched the shingles, and Ensie screamed as the depressurizing ranine coils sent her launching skyward at a sixty-degree angle with the last of their juice.
The Flicker bucked, twisting backwards so its nose was pointing up, dead-on the sky. Ensie could see the shadows of the two moons above the smoky clouds as the sun continued to set. This is the last thing I’ll ever see, she thought, feeling suspended in time and space, oddly motionless as the Flicker made ready to topple her backwards onto her skull.
She blinked. Ensie felt her heart pounding and began counting beats. One. Two. Four. Against all the odds, time actually seemed to be passing with her on her tail like a trained seal. And just as unexpectedly, the Flicker did begin to tilt back to a level plane—but forward, landing back on the skis.
The jostling threw Ensie side to side as the Flicker slammed into the gabled roof. The propeller arm screeched one more time in protest, bending further. But then the bending stopped and there she was, strapped into the seat so tightly her shoulders felt raw under the straps, safely suspended two stories in the air.
Ensie’s eyes felt dry, but she didn’t seem to be able to blink them. Her body was frozen in place, hands glued to the handlebars, weight firmly planted in the seat. She refused to move. It was impossible enough that she wasn’t dead yet; she was terrified to her very core that moving a muscle now would cause the Flicker’s arm to give way and send her skating down the slope.
As she hung there, she had a perfect view of the sunset, and a lazy formation of white storks winging over the city on their way to the Bay. Orange light set their feathers aglow, warm and welcoming like a campfire. They made flying look so easy.
“Junior tech!”
That was Iggy’s voice, hoarse and disbelieving from the ground below. Ensie didn’t dare look down to meet her boss’ eyes. Besides, she was just beginning to realize how stiff her neck was.
“Ensie! Ensie, say something!”
“I’d like to come down, please,” she croaked.
There was no moisture in her mouth aside from a bit of blood, and her throat felt tight. At first, she wasn’t sure if they’d heard her voice at all. But then something halfway between a cheer and a sigh rose up from a half-dozen mouths below, and she heard the scurrying of boots on dirt. “I bet you would! I bet you would,” Iggy shouted with a smile in her voice. The senior tech’s words grew a little less distinct as she talked to someone at ground level. “Get a flaming ladder on this roof right now. Who knows how long she’ll stay stuck there?”
Oh Spheres, Ensie thought, stopping her breathing. Who knows how long I’ll stay stuck here?
Mercifully, the Flicker hadn’t shifted a centimeter by the time the rescue crew came scuttling across the shingles towards her on hands and knees. The faces of other techs in the squad registered, and she nodded to them dumbly as they undid her fasteners and gently pried her fingers off the handlebars. She clutched the shoulders of the man and woman on either side of her as they crabwalked together down the steep roof and to the thick, sturdy wooden ladder. Ensie’s legs and seat felt pulverized from all the jumps, and her head was spinning. She couldn’t bear to look down at the small crowd as she approached the ladder. She just turned her back and concentrated on taking the rungs one at a time down to the ground.
Cheers and applause burst out as her boots finally touched ground. Are they going to keep cheering after I collapse? she wondered, still facing the wall and fumbling with her goggles. Her knees felt so weak, there was no way she’d stay upright for long. Somebody came up behind her, and as she turned she raised her hands to brush aside unwelcome attention—
Then Cooper’s lips touched hers, and her knees went weaker still.
It was a long moment before her eyes fluttered open and she even noticed the hooting of her Aerial comrades all around. She couldn’t even raise the energy to blush. All that registered was Cooper’s brown eyes looking down into hers; her arms somehow around his shoulders; his chest against her chin; and his strong hands above her hips, gently stroking her as they took her weight.
“He came running up about thirty seconds after you launched,” Iggy said, grinning.
Ensie noticed the sweat through his shirt and the stink of exertion. He’d been running hard.
“You came to see me fly,” she murmured, looking up into his eyes. They were rimmed with tears as he looked back down at her.
; “Last time I ever make that mistake,” he tried to joke. But she could feel his pride through his fear as they held each other tightly for a long time.
“Do you have anything to add, senior technician?”
Iggy Roulande sat back from the podium. The legs of her stool lifted off the ground ever so slightly as she rocked back, sitting on her hands. Everyone on the Board of Governors was looking closely at her from their seats at the long, curved table, but she didn’t return their gazes. Iggy kept her eyes focused on Sir Tomas, sitting in the hot seat at the center of the room, stiff as his fashionably high collar. For once, he was looking directly back at her. For all his poise, his brown eyes gave him away. He was a man ten steps behind, struggling to keep up with what was happening, let alone to resist it. Droplets of sweat dangled low on his forehead.
“No further comments, I think,” Iggy said.
Sir Grewes, the aging Cavalier with the waxed red-gray mustache, gave a gentle cough to clear his throat. “With the pleasure of the company...” he said formally, standing from his spot at the center of the curved table to deliver the opinion of the Board. The other eight seated figures nodded. Grewes’ voice was flat and rhythmic, like the strokes of a whittling knife. Each sentence sounded gentle on its own, but the net effect was to tear the stick down to nothing at all.
“Ambition is a virtue. We all know that it’s not petrolatum that powers us, driving us to innovate, and experiment, and push to the fringes of the possible; it’s ambition. It’s the fire in your belly, Sir Tomas, and in senior tech Roulande’s, and in mine. It’s a necessary element for any soul in the community of Petronauts, and a truly essential trait for the few scores of us fortunate enough to be knighted for our efforts in pursuit of progress.
“But what you possess, Sir Tomas, is not ambition. It resembles it—at least, enough to have convinced the Board in ‘64 that you were worthy of recommendation to knighthood, our highest honor short of a seat at this table. But upon consideration, it has become clear that what drives you is smaller, and simpler, and sadder than ambition.”
The old man laced his fingers above his belt buckle. “You just want to be seen,” Grewes said.
Tomas’s tan face blanched. “Pardon me, Governor, but that’s—”
“You deserted your project days before public exhibition because it bored you. You maneuvered your way into another ‘naut’s demonstration because it would be more visible. You ordered last-minute modifications to a concept vehicle undergoing manned flights without the input, approval, or even knowledge of your technicians and test pilot because you thought it would make the Flicker more impressive. And tell us again, for the record, where you were when junior tech Thalanquin went through with the scheduled test that nearly killed her?”
The ‘naut stared down at the floor. “With the Parade squad,” he whispered.
“Loitering at a Parade squad dance rehearsal.”
There was silence. The high ceilings of the octagonal room seemed to lift a little higher; or maybe Sir Tomas shrank down into his chair. At any rate, as Iggy looked over at her superior, he’d never seemed so small.
Grewes sighed and blew his nose, defusing the grandeur of the moment. “But the Spheres will shatter before Aerials stop leering at the Parade squad,” he sighed. “Or before Shock Troops stop fighting dirty in inter-squad exercises. Or before the Haulers stop protesting how neglected and resource-starved they are.
“For better or for worse, we’re all products of squad culture. And it is the opinion of this board...” At this, it was impossible not to notice the weary glance Sir Grewes directed at Dame Nell, the willowy Governor who represented the Aerials. “...that said culture needs to be taken into account as we determine your future, Sir Tomas. Count yourself lucky you aren’t facing a board of Cavaliers,” he said darkly.
Sir Tomas lifted his face, daring to look halfway hopeful. Iggy watched Dame Nell staring evenly at Grewes, no hint of apology in her face. Did she really stick out her neck for Tomas? Don’t tell me they’re going to let him off with a slap on the wrist.
Sir Grewes cleared his throat and gestured to the copyist sitting at a desk adjacent to the table. The young man began transcribing the Governor’s words as he went into the formal language of Petronaut edict.
“In summation, the Board of Governors finds that:
“One: inasmuch as Sir Tomas Frissande has been demonstrably negligent in the execution of his leadership role in the Aerial squad, choosing to pursue self-aggrandizement over the successful completion of the ‘Flicker’ project;
“And Two: inasmuch as his unilateral meddling with the technical specifications of the Flicker in advance of a manned test nearly caused the death of a junior technician in his service—”
“No,” Tomas blurted out, an edge to his normally laconic voice. “The idiot civilians at Upforth’s ruined the Flicker. You can’t pin that on me—”
Before Grewes could speak, Dame Nell stood, her fists clenched. “You’re out of line, Sir Tomas!” the Aerial snapped. “You sit and listen to the edict, and you thank the Spheres we treated you as well as we did!”
The lean ‘naut sank back in his chair as Grewes went on, his voice flatter than ever as he repeated himself.
“—nearly caused the death of a junior technician in his service, showing a flagrant disregard for human life, and a lack of attention to the basic procedures that keep pilots safe;
“We, the Board of Governors of the Petronauts of Delia, find you unworthy of your title and your leadership role in the community of Petronauts. Pending approval of the Throne, you will be stripped of your knighthood. Your authority over techs and apprentices in the Aerial squad ends effective immediately.
“However, taking into account that your actions may be due to your over-enthusiastic embracing of an Aerial culture of risk-taking, self-promotion, and irreverence, we are holding back from the most severe punishment we could muster.” Sir Grewes folded his arms behind his back. “You will not be expelled from the community of Petronauts. Instead, we present you with an option.
“We are creating an additional apprentice position under the Taskmaster’s discretion. You, Mister Frissande, are eligible to remain in this community as an apprentice in the Taskmaster’s central work gang, unaffiliated with any given squad. You would labor to support whichever of Delia’s eight squads the Taskmaster determined necessary. By returning to the basics of what it means to be a Petronaut—with no prospect of glory or reward beyond the success of your team— you would have the opportunity to prove to the Taskmaster that you can channel your egoism into projects larger than yourself. You would serve in this fashion for two years before the Taskmaster could potentially recommend you for assignment as an apprentice to a squad to which you are suited. Which could include returning as an Aerial.”
Grewes’s voice hung in the air for several long seconds.
“There it is, Tomas,” he said softly. “If you want to stay a Petronaut, that’s your option.”
Deliberately, Sir Grewes took his seat at the table again. He picked up the fist-sized granite sphere at the level of his right arm and clacked it against the curved base it rested in. The sound of the gavel reverberated through the open room.
Sir Tomas looked down at the ground. His mouth worked spasmodically for a time, as if he were trying to get something unstuck from his teeth. Iggy and the Governors watched him for a long moment, long after the echoes of the gavel died out.
The former Petronaut clapped his hands on his knees with a smack and stood. Without lifting his eyes to a soul in the room, he stalked to the narrow door and swung it open. He didn’t bother to pull it closed behind him, so its hinges squeaked for nearly half a minute as tension inexorably pulled it shut.
Long before the door finished closing, the Governors began murmuring to each other. Iggy scratched the side of her neck and got off her stool, twisting her mouth a little. None of them had any delusions that Tomas Frissande had left to think things over and give t
hem his decision later. They’d never see him again in Workshop Row, except maybe to swear at old enemies and leer at new prey. Good riddance. Though watching him grinding down crankshafts with the kids in the work gang would have done my heart some good.
“Thank you for your testimony, senior tech,” Grewes said to her as he passed to the door. She bowed to him, hiding her amusement at the gravity in the old Cavalier’s voice.
“Just doing my part. Thank you for the opportunity, Sir. Dame Nell,” she continued her thanks in her most gracious voice as the Aerial ‘naut approached her too.
“Shut up,” Nell harrumphed. “‘Just doing my part?’ You couldn’t wait to see that firebounder go.”
“Guilty, Your Reverence.”
The older woman snorted at Iggy, amused. Before she could speak, Iggy burst in with a question that had been gnawing at her. “Dame Nell? Did you really argue with the Board that being an Aerial was an excuse for what Tomas did?”
“Board deliberations are private, senior tech; don’t overstep yourself,” Nell said, her grin vanishing instantly. Iggy stuck her fingertips just inside the waistline of her slacks and waited, tipping her head a little in silent apology. The Governor glared at the senior tech for a moment before her face relaxed.
“Some of us are Aerials who happen to be insufferable. Some of us are insufferable and happen to be Aerials. Maybe our culture lets people like that go further than they should. But that’s our problem, not just theirs.”
“At least...”
“At least until a ‘naut almost gets his tech killed.” Dame Nell spun her fingers impatiently, eager to move on. “He’s out. Let’s leave it at that.