S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

Idly: I wonder what happened to the President? He'd never liked the man much. Probably the Secret Service got him out, and he's still running things. in about a hundred square miles around Camp David, maybe.

He went on aloud: "Hell, what was that Greek king, the one who got all the way to India-"

"Alexander the Great?"

"Yeah. Always the first one in: here we are."

The hunters had brought them to the clearing on the crest of Echo Mountain, and carried the hang gliders as well, bearing them lengthwise up the narrow trail. Aylward went forward to check them over, using a tiny metal lantern with a candle within and a moveable shutter. Havel did his own examination, and then went the other way, up the sloping surface of the open space until he reached the steep up-curled lip facing southeast.

That made a natural slope to lie on with only his head above it, until all the others had gathered behind him. He used the time to see what could be seen of the castle, matching it to the detailed maps he'd memorized.

There was more light over there than you'd expect; he hadn't seen anything like the actinic glare of the searchlight since before the change. The beam flicked out, traversing slowly back and forth along the parapet.

"Puts them in the limelight, doesn't it?" Signe said from his left.

Havel grinned in the darkness. Literally in the limelight; lime burning in a stream of compressed air, with a big curved mirror behind it. That was what they'd used in theaters to light the stage, before electricity. His father-in-law's education was coming in really useful.

"Don't look at it," he said, turning to repeat the order on the other side. "It's supposed to blind them, not us. All right, now take a good look at that tower. Match what you're seeing to the maps you studied."

He did himself. The enemy had obligingly put torches all along the palisade of their motte-and-bailey castle, which would give them a better view of the first ten yards and kill their chances of seeing anything beyond that, even without the searchlight stabbing into their eyes.

"Amateurs," Aylward muttered.

Havel nodded; the best way to see in the dark, barring night-sight goggles, was to get out in the dark, well away from any source of light. It was a lot easier to see into an illuminated area than out of it. If he'd been in charge of that fort, he'd have killed every light, and had a mesh of scouts lying out in the darkness and damn the cost. The CORA men hadn't been able to threaten the fort, or get much past it: but they had been able to discourage the garrison from walking around after sunset.

The torches outlined a round-shouldered rectangle with Highway 20 running through it from east to west. There were buildings on either side of the roadway, and the circular cone of the motte halfway between the corner and the gatehouse. Obligingly, the Protector's men had a big iron basket full of pinewood burning on top of the tower.

"Everybody satisfied they know where they're going?" Mike said, waiting for the nods.

Aylward's had an edge in it: We should have practiced this more, chum.

Havel's reply: We should have, but we couldn't. Pray hard.

"There's a nice updraft over the lip of this cliff and we've got better than fifteen hundred feet of height on the target, so there's not going to be any problem with that. Come at the tower from the west, with a bit of height to spare. If you miss, just keep going-we've got people out there in the ground between our lines and the creek. And do not-I say this twice-do not launch until I'm down and give the signal."

He caught Pamela's eye, and Aylward's; they could be counted on to restrain any adolescent foolishness. Eric was grinning, despite all that had happened since the Change:

I told him he'd be a dangerous man once he got some experience, and Christ Jesus, I was right! Havel thought.

It wasn't that his brother-in-law had a taste for blood, but he did like to fight.

Signe and Pam were ready, both looking tautly calm. Good. They both know this is serious business. Aylward's calm was relaxed; for a moment Havel felt a bitter envy of Juniper Mackenzie. God, I'd give a couple of fingers for someone with his skills and no ambition to be numero uno!

It was time.

T wo of the ranchers brought Michael Havel his wing. They helped him into the special quick-release harness as well; nobody could have made it before the Change, for fear of lawsuits.

Well, the world may have collapsed into death and darkness, but at least we don't have lawyers and nervous Nellies trying to encase us in bubble-wrap, he thought. Hurrah, not.

He gave a slight chuckle at the thought, and found them staring at him in awe as he tested his grip on the steering bar of the hang glider and the bundle of rope lashed to the frame above his head.

It's not courage, boys, just realism, he thought sardonically. It's a little late for the 'Christ Jesus, this is crazy, run away, run away!' reaction.

One of them handed him a pair of goggles, and he slipped them down over his eyes.

Then: "Remember the guide-lights. See y'all soon!"

Four steps forward and leap:

Wind pouring up the slope caught the black Dacron above him and jerked him skyward; the lights below dwindled, and the air grew yet more chill, making his cheeks burn as his body swung level in the harness. A great exultation flowed through him: Flying again, by God!

In a way, this was even more fun than piloting light aircraft. Less power, but you were one with the air and its currents, like a fish in water. Pull back on the control bar and tilt yourself to the right; the nose came down, the right wingtip tilted up, and you went swooping across the night like an owl. You weren't operating a machine; you were flying, as close to being a bird as a human being could get, barring magic. Once you'd learned how, you didn't have to think of controlling the wing any more than you did of directing your feet.

You just went where you wanted to go, down the mountainside and over the tall pines, out into the valley:

There.

The oval of the castle lay eastward, with the great beacon fire atop the tower on the motte. He banked, leaning and pushing leftward, inertia pressing him against the harness as the hang-glider swerved. And beyond it, beyond Echo Creek, six more big fires; set by Ken Larsson, in a line that gave a precise bearing if you kept them strung like beads behind the beacon.

And don't forget altitude, he told himself, lips peeling back from teeth despite the cold wind in his face.

Too high, and you overshoot and the mission fails. Too low, and you bugsplat on the side of the tower or land right in the middle of the bailey.

Wind cuffed at him, pushing him away from the line of lights. The darkness rushed past: he imagined a line through the night, a line drawn straight towards the beacon fire and tried to keep to it; like a landing approach at night, but without instruments.

Suddenly it was close. The beacon fire wasn't a flickering point of light in the darkness any more; it was a pool of light, then a mass of flames spitting sparks upward, with the black lines of the basket outlined against the ruddy embers: and slightly too low. He was headed for the side of the tower, the rows of narrow arrowslits.

Up. Push at the bar, bring the nose of the triangular wing up: just a little, just a little, feel how she turned speed into height but don't slow down too much, or you'll stall and drop:

There was a checkerboard of machicolations around the top of the tower, unpleasantly like a gap-toothed grin with square teeth. They loomed up at him as he approached, swelling faster and faster.

Mind empty, he felt for the currents of air. They turned rough and choppy-heat rising from torches and fires and hearths bouncing him up and down as he sliced the air over the castle; it made things a lot harder, since he couldn't judge his angle of attack as well. Fabric cracked and thut-tered along the rear edge of the hang glider.