First: Flight
My shoulder itches. The p-skin briefly forms a tiny scratchy place to relieve the distraction, and then smooths back into its habitual silkiness. Can’t have the pilot distracted, oh no. The physical must not intrude. The physical is all out there, diving and spinning in a hard acceleration with my brain, it seems, three inches in front of my eyes trying to keep track, keep control. Processing hard; flow state, they call it, where every action is instinctive, the moves just come without conscious thought, straight from hindbrain to hands with no me in the middle. Code or flight, it’s all the same. Particularly here.
Hard sunshine, hard concrete, we’re down in a puff of sullen dust and glittering glass shards from where the others didn’t make it. Nice touch.
The screens go black and the helmet lifts and sweat drips down my nose to itch where the p-skin can’t reach it. My hands are numb and I nearly poke myself in the eye wiping the trickle away. The hatch goes up and a cheerful face intrudes. “Rough one, yes? They really tried to kill you this time.”
“She’s a bitch, it’s true.”
“The bird? Sanika?”
“Gimme a hand.”
Clambering out of the bird always seems so awkward, I feel heavy and ungainly on the ground. I’m reminded of a landbound albatross. It’s cooler than I expect in the hangar, but maybe that’s just because I’m soaking wet in nothing but my p-skin and my boots.
“She wants to see you.”
“Great.”
Looping a towel round my neck, I head up the steel stairs to the control pod, hovering like a malevolent wasp’s nest above the hangar floor. From here you get a panoramic view of the simulators and in the distance, the birds. They glitter with reflected sunset and I take a moment to covet them before pushing on the office door.
Sanika Fullman looks up at me from the bank of screens and flicks a long finger at a chair. “Sit. Look at this.”
A looping whorl of light unwinds on a screen, tracing my simulated flight through the course I’ve just completed. Hologate after hologate pops into existence, is tracked, caught, completed, in a swooping swallowdance. “You nearly missed this one.” The dance stops, frozen, and the display zooms in on the gate in question, my wings nearly clipping the edge.
“Nobody else made it past gate six.”
“You miss one, you die. Game over.”
“I completed the course.”
“Sloppy flying, Cal.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I made it through. All the way. Twenty seven gates and the worst layout you could think up, and I beat it.” I towel my face again. “I’m ready.”
“You’re ready when I say so, and not before. If I’m not happy, you don’t go.”
“Keeping you happy is my sole aim in life.” I stand up, heading for the door. “Shower time.”
Sanika gives me a long, cold glare, and then turns back to her screens. I smile all the way down the stairs.
---
Second: Martha
Martha leaned on her hoe, watching from under her hat as Joel made his slow approach. The mule huffed and complained more than usual and she wondered what the extra load was on the cart to make it sulk so. Pulling an early carrot, she ambled up to the gate and waved.
Joel waved back, his bald head shining and pink between fringes of grey hair.
Martha grinned. “You need a hat,” she called out as he got closer. “Gonna boil your brains.”
Joel made a face. “Boil ‘em in sweat if I wear a hat. Hot summer.”
“No kidding.” Martha held out the carrot for Josey to munch, a little apology to the old mule for her long driveway. “What ya got today?”
“Bunch of stuff. Mail first.” Joel handed over a thin packet of letters for her, turning back to rummage amongst the baskets and crates in the cart. “Honey from Bill.” A large crock. Joy. “Eggs from Sonia.” A basket, lined with straw, too rustic for words. “Peter says pick up the lamb when you come with the fruit.”
Martha scratched an eyebrow. “Okay. Tell him Wednesday, the plums are just ready.”
“Will do. Now. Couple boxes from the City. Need a hand? They’re heavy.”
“That’d be grand. Bring ‘em up to the house.” Martha swung the gate open for the cart to pass through, then followed up the dusty track to the house. Stowing the food in the cold room, she dusted off her hands to help Joel shift the heavy boxes into the main hall. “Been waiting for these, quite a while.”
Joel poked at one of the sturdy boxes with a booted toe. “Parts?”
“Nope. New gear.”
Unsheathing her heavy knife, Martha sliced through the packaging and peeled back the plastic wrapping. Joel whistled. “That the new Quantum?”
“Yeah.” Martha grinned up at the fat postman. “You know I can’t resist those new gadgets.”
“Damn, Martha, you gonna end up missing the harvest.” Joel poked her, now. “Too much time sitting indoors gonna make you fat.”
Martha slid her hands over the cool crystal, leaving fingermarks. “Tch. I’d only get fat if I ran the post.”
Joel snorted. “Speaking of which. Got any to go?”
---
Third: Duskha
Duskha is a city well named. Dusty, sandy, and constantly caressed by a gentle wind, it stretches for nearly fifteen miles along the shore of the Sarsha Lake. The wind is gentle, but it’s relentless, and it’s said that if you stay out in it long enough you will go quietly mad. It’s said that many of the inhabitants of Duskha already have.
The port quarter is surprisingly small, for a city with such a shoreline. Just a few shabby jetties, mostly used by the fishing fleet. There are few traders here, half a dozen hardy souls that ply the routes across the Lake from the richer cities on the western shore.
In the cool galleries of the rich, tiny jewel-coloured birds hop and peep in giant elaborate aviaries, forming an ever-changing foil to the silks and oiled woods. Indolent ladies recline on overstuffed lounges, listening to the storytellers and sipping salha, while silent barefoot women glide to and fro with fruit and pastries.
Below, in the pounded-earth streets and alleyways, ragged boys dart amongst the crowds, running errands and taunting the market sellers, bright eyed in the shadows. One small one cautiously follows Fa'aka as he stamps along, robe swishing the dust into a minor devil to dance behind him, staff crashing down with every step, swinging wide and wild. Bystanders scatter, clearing a path before the old man, intimidated as much by his scowling manner as the ironwood staff. Reaching a certain door, the staff swings up and back and around and crash, into the door, and again. "Come out, damn you," the old man roars, "come out and face me!" |
