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Chapter 5 — The Man from Mainframe
A hand signal held the group parallel to the human stream below; Sciathan reinforced it with helmet notification: “Two east.” As each agreed, he checked them off mentally: Grian, Sumaire, Mear, and Aer were still willing to accept his leadership. His right arm stiff, he slapped toward Viron’s thatch and shingles, palm down. “Going lower.” Fingertips to forehead. “You may follow if you choose.”
Aer almost certainly would.
Was this man Auk among the marchers’ creeping rectangles? One of the spectators whose cheers had dwindled to chirps in the vastness of the sky? Either way this Auk was a lone individual, his fellow citizens a myriad of myriads. As he had from the begi
The possibility that Mainframe wished to destroy them had to be dismissed unheard, like the equal possibility that he, Aer, and the rest had been chosen because they were expendable.
Right arm pointing, hand cupped. “I fly east.”
Four acknowledgements. They were all coming.
He had begun a circuit of the city. They would have to land soon, have to remove and secure their wings, question and persuade its inhabitants in the Common Tongue. Whether he was a miracle worker or a malcontent, his fluency had no doubt been a factor.
Where was there a good, big field, with people near but not too near, close to the city? Below him, a house with a desert-colored peaked roof sprang up like a mushroom.
Right arm extended, palm flat, motioning down. “Lower.”
It seemed that he could read the character of each of his companions in their acknowledgments: Grian weighing the odds; Sumaire narrow-eyed, her hands deadly still; Mear frantic for adventure; Aer concerned for everybody except herself.
At this altitude they were within the reach of small-arms fire, and small arms were evident; all the overseers of the bearded men erecting tents seemed to have them. He reminded himself that once they had landed the presence or absence of weapons would make no difference, that any mob of Cargos could kill them with stones or sticks. In fact the weapons that these Cargos had should be an advantage; armed, they would be less apt to feel threatened.
Pointing arm, hand a fist. “North.” Two fingers down, separated. “Terminate flight.”
“Aye, Sumaire.” Taut face, dry lips, hooded eyes.
“Aye, Mear!” Descending too fast and glorying in it.
“Aye, Grian.” Picking his spot.
“Aye, Aer.” Worrying about him, worried not that he would crash but that he would bungle his approach.
Grassy land, a little uneven. No more time for character or pla
Mear was already down, having pulled up at the precise moment and landed striding; reckless though Mear was, no more skilled flier ever tuned the sun. Now he, too, would have to land without a fall or lose what authority he had. Four cubits, stall, drop into the wind. Did it!
At once a gust nearly blew him off his feet.
Grian, Surnaire and Aer came down as he was taking off his wings and PM, Aer too close, perhaps; Sumaire four-pointing; Grian dropping a full eight, wings bow-bent when he hit.
Big women were ru
“Peace!” He raised both hands, palms out. “We who serve the gods mean no harm.”
The rider reined up, a handweapon drawn. “There are no gods but the goddess!”
Could the database be wrong? “We are her supporters and servitors!”
A dozen towering women surrounded them, some staring, some leveling short, gap-mouthed guns, some clearly waiting for the mounted woman’s instructions.
“We come from Mainframe,” Sciathan explained. “Mainframe, the home of the goddess. At her order we come to find Auk.” Privately he wondered which goddess it was.
“We’ll help you, but first you must give your weapons to us.” There was calculation in the mounted woman’s eyes.
Aer said, “No gun, no knife.”
The mounted woman’s attention went to her at once. “You’re in charge?”
Aer shook her head. “Fliers.” She touched her chin. “Aer I am. All fly.”
Mear joined them carrying his wings and PM, and accompanied by a gaggle of big women. “Each is one. Five ones.”
“Surrender your weapons,” the woman on horseback told him.
Coming up behind Mear, Sumaire held out her hands. “Mine. With these I kill.”
Calculation again. “You’re the leader.”
“Yes. My own.”
Mear said, “I am mine. No weapon. No gun. You give?” One of the big women laughed loudly and the horse shied, neck bent and hooves dancing.
“Quiet, you!” Pulling up the reins, the mounted woman scrutinized them. “Marhaba! Betifham ’arabi?”
Aer and Mear looked to Sciathan; he could only shrug.
She holstered her weapon and dismounted; her smile could not vanquish something vindictive that had made her face its own. “We started badly,” she told Aer. “Let’s start over and be friends. I’m Major Sirka, Flier Aer. I command the advance party of the Horde of Trivigaunte. I can’t welcome you to this city, because this city’s not mine. Mine’s to the south. You have flown over it many times. You must know it.”
Aer nodded and smiled. “Beautiful!”
“This man,” Major Sirka nodded at Sciathan, “came looking for a Vironese, another man. Are you looking for a woman?”
Sumaire said, “The man. Where will we find Auk?”
Grian, who arrived still wearing his PM, said slowly, “We are not like you are, Woman.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be, little man. Now listen to me. You’re…”
Her voice faded; she had become a painted figure, an image of gray on a featureless plain. Sciathan felt his lips drawn back and lifted in a grin by someone else.
Aer gaped at him, eyes wide as her mouth. Now, when all other color had fled, the blue of her eyes was still bright. Someone else reached out to her with Sciathan’s arms, and in a distant place she screamed.
The flash and boom of the shot so startled him that almost he woke; colors were briefly real, the scarlet-daubed thing at his feet Aer. He felt himself thrust violently down and back into a helpless dark at the edge of oblivion.
Sumaire slew with a touch and Mear fought with desperate valor until more shots threw both to the ground in their first embrace. Still carrying his wings, Grian shot straight up. He, Sciathan, should fly too; but his PM was gone, his hands bound. Turning, he saw his wings and kicked and stamped them.
“Let me think, Patera.” Maytera Marble cocked her head to one side. “The generalissimo from Trivigaunte and another one, but we don’t know her name. I’m assuming it will be a woman.”
Silk nodded. “I believe we can rely on it.”
“We don’t know how much either one eats. Probably a lot. Then there’s General Saba and Generalissimo Oosik. I’ve seen them, and they’ll want a whorl of food. Are each of them going to bring somebody, too?”
“That’s a good point.” Silk considered. “Oosik’s almost certain to, because Siyuf said she’d bring one of her staff. Let’s assume that they both do. That’s six so far.”
“All big eaters.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but His Cognizance and I won’t eat much and you’ll eat nothing.”
“Am I invited?” It was difficult to read Maytera Marble’s expression.
“Of course you are. You’re the hostess, the mistress of the house — of this palace, I should have said.”
“I thought Chenille might do it, Patera.”
“She’s a guest.” Silk settled himself more comfortably in the big wingback chair, conscious that he would have to leave it soon. “She’s here only because she may be in danger.”