Eyes of the Calculor (12 page)

"If I am wrong, what is to be lost by following my recommendations?" prompted Disparon.

"A half night's observations, resulting in some angry senior monks," replied the abbot.

"So what?" responded Disparon.

The consequences of inaction should Disparon be right did not even bear thinking about, the abbot was certain of that. He appended his approval to the note, and sent Brother Disparon away to implement its recommendations.

Griffith, Central Confederation

I he light of dawn was spilling through the hallway's leadlight window when the bolt to Velesti's door was drawn back sharply. The door opened. Velesti stood before the waiting Mica, dressed in the uniform of the Dragon Librarian Service and with a splash of yellow on her sleeve. It was the old-style designation of rank in the Dragon Librarian Service, as Dramoren's decree on uniforms had not yet been implemented in Griffith. Velesti's long auburn hair had been chopped to shoulder length, and was again bound into a ponytail.

"For breakfast I want three eggs, grain bread toast, two apples, boiled oats with honey, and a pitcher of milk," she said in a hollow but steady voice.

"For you, right away, my dearest," Julica assured her. "But your hair, your long, beautiful hair!"

"It was annoying me," explained Velesti tersely.

"I—I—you look so pale. Perhaps some makeup, rouge and eyeshadow—"

"Nothing!" said Velesti firmly, with something almost like fear flashing in her eyes.

She walked slowly and with caution, but she was undeniably more steady than the night before. She descended the stairs without stumbling, although she held on to the banister all the way and had to rest at the bottom. Breakfast was served in the kitchen, and she slowly ate boiled oats with clover honey and goat milk. When she had finished she began stalking through the house, as if exploring. Julica followed. When they reached the dining room they found Reclor sitting at the table, cleaning a Cambrissen dueling pistol.

"Vel, you're walking!" exclaimed Reclor, springing up so abruptly that his chair toppled. "Here, sit down."

Reclor reached out for Velesti's hand but she flinched away. Behind her, Julica nodded to Reclor. He held his hands apart and backed away slowly. Velesti pulled back a chair and sat down. Reclor returned to his dueling pistol.

"In eleven days I turn fifteen," said the youth ominously. "Fifteen is the legal dueling age."

"What nonsense is this?" demanded Julica.

"In eleven days I shall fight for the honor of my sister."

Velesti seemed not to notice. She reached out and picked the other dueling pistol from its case on the table. She hefted it clumsily.

"Heavy," she observed.

"You have to get used to the weight of guns," said Reclor. "You will need to learn to shoot to gain your higher Dragon Librarian gradings."

Velesti stood up and walked over to the gun rack. She reached up and lifted a Morelac twin-barrel flintlock from its brackets. Turning it over in her long, pale fingers, she pulled back the left striker and checked the priming pan. It was empty. She pulled the trigger. There was an emphatic click as the flint in the striker sent a shower of sparks into the empty priming pan.

"Heavy," Velesti said again.

"Just what are you doing with that dueling pair?" Julica asked Reclor.

"I have a dispute with three officers in the Griffith Mayoral Musketeers," replied Reclor casually.

"What? You mean those who attacked Vel—ah, I mean—"

"Yes."

"Reclor, you cannot challenge those men to a duel," said Julica. "They're veterans, they have years of experience at fighting, they are real killers. You are not."

"I think you will be surprised," responded Reclor, frowning slightly.

"You're just a boy!"

"And a very dangerous, devious boy. I have already sent word to Martyne at Balesha. I told him that Elsile had been murdered."

"Who was Elsile?" asked Velesti.

"Martyne's sister, your best friend!" cried Julica, suddenly blind with anger and grief. "Don't you remember? Don't you care? She and you were raped by those sons of pig turds, then—"

Suddenly Julica caught herself and stood horrified with her hands over her mouth. Velesti turned to her.

"I do not remember, but I do care," Velesti said in slow, well-enunciated Centralian.

She turned back to Reclor. Julica gradually began to breathe again, almost swooning with relief. Velesti had not retreated back into herself upon learning the truth.

"An hour after Martyne arrives there will be nobody left to kill," said Reclor.

"Martyne has renounced our world, Reclor," said Julica, her voice barely above a whisper.

"If that is true, then it is all up to me, Frelle Julica. I must avenge both Elsile and Velesti, and I shall not fail."

"Avenge what happened to me?" asked Velesti, her words slow and evenly spaced.

"Come, Vel, let us walk in the garden," said Julica hurriedly.

"Reclor, am I your only sister?"

"Yes, Vel."

"And I was ravished? By musketeers?"

"Vel—"

"No!" shouted Julica. "Vel, trust me, do not ask or you might vanish back inside yourself and never return."

The North American West Coast

What flew out over the ruins of San Francisco were little more than two enormous wings with eight compression engines each. They

were lumbering along at barely one hundred miles per hour, at five thousand feet and in a shallow climb. There were two crew in each wing, but the second super-regal was also carrying five passengers and their tool packs.

As they crossed the coastline the gangers crowded at the small viewing ports, but after that there was just unbroken ocean beneath a blue sky. Another half hour passed before the wing captain called to the navigator and unstrapped.

"Take over, Mardean, I am going back."

"Anything I can do, Saireme Airlord?"

"It is time the gangers heard what they are to do, and they had better hear it from me."

Samondel was dressed in her embroidered flight jacket, which by now had a symbol for her duel victory as well as the earlier victories in clear air combat. At the sight of her, the gangers all returned to their wicker seats and sat quietly. Samondel was by no means tall, but even she had to stoop as she stood before them in what had once been the super-regal's bomb bay.

"You all know what this venture is about," she began. "Sair Avoncor, would you like to tell us what you understand it to be?"

Overawed by his ruler, the burly man scratched at his stubbly hair as he composed his reply.

"Saireme Airlord, there's a big island off the coast, one that has really important relics of olden times. You'll cruise over the island and find a place that we can rough into a wingfield in two weeks. Then we'll parachute down to do the work, and you will return in two weeks with scholars and artisans. They will try to learn the secret of the relics. We'll not touch anything, except to make a wing-field and hunt game."

"That is quite correct, Sair, except for one detail. You are to make three wingfields, not one. You will be away for two seasons, not two weeks, and you will continue to receive six times your usual rate of pay for as long as you are away."

She allowed them to absorb this astonishing news. They would come home with three years' pay each, and the agreement was that

the money would not be taxed at all. Avoncor raised his hand, and Samondel nodded to him.

"Where's the two other wingfields to be, then, Saireme? There's only one island, a couple of hours west. Hawaii, it's called on the old maps—I think."

"The first island is twenty hours southwest," said Samondel, her voice clear, slow, and precise above the drone of the compression engines.

"But Saireme, these things only fly for seven hours," replied Avoncor, a fact that all the others were also aware of.

"When loaded with bombs for combat, yes, but they have been stripped bare and given extra fuel tanks. My navigator and I have only a gallon of water between us and a pound each of dried meat and nuts to chew on for the whole forty hours that we will be in the air. Neither of us has a parachute, either. All of this gives us a cruising time of eighteen hours with your weight and tools added, but past midpoint we shall be refueled in flight by our companion super-regal."

"That leaves a very narrow margin for returning to the mainland," Avoncor pointed out.

"That is my concern, not yours. Are there any more questions?"

"The other two islands, Saireme. Ah, where are they?"

"One is two thousand miles further southwest, and is called Samoa. Nearly as far again is New Zealand. After that, well, we know the Australicans have their own wingfields."

"For the wings they stole from us, during the war."

"Correct, but we shall try not to hold any grudges."

It actually took a little less than nineteen hours to reach the main island of the Hawaii chain, as the winds were light all the way. There was cloud at the summit of an immense volcanic cone to starboard, but they came in low, over a coastal plain.

"That, there," called the navigator, pointing while he looked through his binoculars. "Seems to be part of an old road, and it's fairly clear."

"After two thousand years?" asked Samondel.

"The road was probably cut out of rock in the first place, so trees are unlikely to grow in its surface. It looks straight and level for about three miles."

"Do you think you could have half a mile of that made clear and firm enough to support this thing in a fortnight?" Samondel asked Avoncor, who was in the cockpit with them.

"It just has to be firm and level for the width of the wheels, Saireme. The trees and bushes to the sides only have to be felled and burned so that the wings and propellers have clearance. We can do it."

They climbed in a wide spiral until at parachute height, then the navigator wound the rear hatch open.

"Two weeks, mind!" said Avoncor as he stood ready to jump. "Come back with a bottle of Black Dirkfang for each of us, or don't bother to come back."

"You have the wingfield ready or I'll pour all five bottles into the reserve fuel tank," replied Mardean, slapping him on the shoulder.

Avoncor jumped. The others shambled after him and the navigator kept them moving, not allowing them to stop and think. Back with Samondel again, he could see five white parachutes already close to the ground. One by one they collapsed into the mottled olive green and dark gray landscape.

"Nineteen hours and twenty minutes," said the navigator. "We should reach the mainland with a big margin if we turn back now."

"Watch for a signal, keep watching."

"There, a flashing signal mirror . . . / ALL SAFE / ESTIMATE FOR WINGFIELD 3 WEEKS /"

By way of reply Samondel revved the engines, then drooped the port wing—and kept on rolling. The navigator cried out in terror, then they were level again for a moment before Samondel began a leisurely turn.

"I didn't know a super-regal could do that!" exclaimed Mardean.

"Neither did I," replied Samondel.

"You could have just waggled the wings."

"The very brave deserve a very special salute, Sair Mardean."

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

v-loster and Lermai had worked in Libris since they had been boys of ten, and both had recently been presented with their certificates of appreciation for eighty-five years in the service of the enormous mayoral library of Rochester. They had been relatively young men in their sixties when the legendary Highliber Zarvora had been appointed to run the place. They had seen the first Calculor of Libris built, and had been there when it had been commissioned, operating with only a few dozen human components. They watched it grow to be powered by several thousand souls, and for over a decade they had worked in the Calculor, sweeping floors, carrying meals, cleaning instruments, pushing book trolleys, and occasionally dragging out the bodies of dead components. They had seen it replaced by a calculor driven by electrical essence, and had helped to dismantle and carry away its furniture and equipment. Then, along with the former components, they had carried in and assembled the wires, relay banks, and register switches of the electrical calculor, ZAR 2.

"Told ye this thing would not last," said Closter as they pushed a trolley laden with blackened tangles of wire and melted relay switch banks.

"It lasted twenty-two years," Lermai pointed out.

"Ah, but how much of that time was spent broken? Downtime, as the regulators call it."

"Aye, but when it's up it's lots faster."

"Aye, but how often is it down?"

"Ah . . . sometimes."

They reached a guarded door, but the guards opened it for them without so much as a challenge. Outside in a cobbled courtyard, they began to heave the mortal remains of the electrical calculor onto a rubbish cart.

"The original Calculor ran from 1696 GW until '08. That's twelve years. Twelve years of continuous running."

"They stopped it sometimes."

"Like when?"

"Like when they used to take lazy components out and shoot 'em. All the other components were made to watch the executions. Made 'em work better."

"Aye, but that was not often. I'd say that if you looked at the registers of the duty regulators, you would find that the human cal-culor was running longer than the electrical essence one."

They pushed the empty trolley back inside the building but did not return straight to Dolorian Hall. Instead they shuffled to the component cells, where they loaded their book trolley with four benches, a dozen abacus frames, and a length of chain with manacles attached.

"Well, are ye?" asked Lermai.

"Are I what?"

"Going to look at the registers of the duty regulators for the past thirty-four years?"

"Aye, of course."

"But you're nearly ninety-five."

"So are you."

"You'll never finish."

"I have fifteen years until I even begin to think of planning to retire. I intend to be the first library attendant to serve in Libris for a hundred years."

"But I'm a month older than you are, and I joined a month earlier."