Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (28 page)

Many of the men and some of the women were wearing copies of or fanciful variations on Floyt's cutaway, whipped up for them by Frostpile's resident designers and couturiers. Given the wealth and influence enjoyed by most of the guests, all signs pointed to Floyt's having started a far-reaching fashion craze.

"I'm still having a hard time believing you suggested this," Alacrity told Floyt. "You've never even
been
in one of these kites."

"But you have," Floyt reminded him patiently, for something like the twentieth time, as he pulled on lightweight biking shoes. "Alacrity, you and Dincrist and the others have dabbled in airbiking, but I am a
cyclist
."

He stood up. Though the shoes were already broken in, he'd put patches of skinsheath on his feet for protection. "I don't know much about star travel or guns and all that, but I'm very good at what's important now. You'll see!"

Has he changed, Alacrity wondered,
or am I just seeing him more clearly?

The Terran looked again at
Thistle,
their airbike. She was a muscle-powered craft made of transparent metalar of quarter-mil thickness. She had a long pusher propeller and extremely lengthy shoulder-mounted wings that gave her good lift and soaring characteristics.
Thistle
also had a canard, a small steering wing, set at the end of a pole extending from her nose. Floyt thought the orange dawnlight streaming through her made
Thistle
a creation of unsurpassed beauty.

Floyt was glad that both competing bikes were conventional uprights; he had little experience with recumbents. It seemed that the Union Cyclist Internationale had banned the use of recumbents in official racing in 1938, Terran reckoning, and a peculiar snobbism had kept offworld parvenus from popularizing them in air biking.

"I wish we could get going," Alacrity said, shivering.

"Yes. I'm cold too."

"It's not that, Ho. Halidome's going to rise soon. You won't believe how hot it's gonna get inside that thing. Drink all the liquids you can."

"But the weight—"

"You'll lose it double—'stat once we're airborne."

Floyt, an experienced racer, needed no further urging. He swigged from a bottle of fortified fruit juice and bit into another carbohydrate bar. Alacrity had two of the ground crew give
Thistle
one more quick going-over with their evaporators, to cut down on the weight of condensation she'd have to carry aloft.

Over by
Feather,
the biplane airbike selected by Dincrist and his partner, the Presbyter Kuss, some last-minute adjustments were being made.
Feather,
like
Thistle,
was framed with incredibly strong, light tubing and had fiber-cable control lines. Alacrity had chosen a monoplane over a biplane because, even though the other was the more rugged design,
Thistle
had an edge in maneuverability. He was even more opposed to less conventional designs, like the flying wing with a pedaling nacelle at both ends.

While Alacrity ran a last check on the tiny commo button clipped to his wrist sweatband, Floyt looked over the pedaling assembly. He was once more amazed at the lightness and strength of the exotic composite materials used. He dearly wished to try an equally advanced bicycle—to take one back to Earth, if it were possible. Surely that wouldn't be too much to ask of Earthservice?

He turned his attention to the single landing wheel, and the emergency snare mounted along the airbike's underbelly. It was a flat envelope of adhesive ribbons like those of the snarley-ball thrown at Alacrity back at Machu Picchu. Alacrity and the crew chief had pronounced themselves satisfied with it; Floyt, eyeing the insubstantial stuff of the packet, wasn't so confident.

First Councillor Inst stumped over to
Feather
in the metal exoskeleton of an antigrav-harness. The Severeemish had been opposed to any kind of safety escort for the two racers; there'd been none in Slaughter Strait. But Tiajo insisted; the route of the race, agreed upon after considerable wrangling, was over some rough and dangerous country. Arguments for a shorter, safer course and more escort flyers had been met by Sortie-Wolf's accusation that Tiajo was trying to turn a grudge match into a dilettantes'

outing.

So one escort was a compromise. Several nominees had been discussed, including Redlock and Maska, along with some of Dincrist's cronies. For various reasons, Alacrity or Dincrist had objections to almost all. In the end they'd settled on Inst, somewhat at Tiajo's urging. At least it stood in his favor that he'd averted a death duel, or a war, by dredging up a bit of Severeemish history.

By the time final arrangements—choice of routes, air-bikes, escort, and so on—had been made, it was late in the evening, but Alacrity demanded the opportunity for a test flight, to check the lay of the land and the aircraft. The Severeemish had told him, with vast amusement, to go right ahead, since he had all night for the project. He'd made an answer not suitable in polite company and dropped the idea.

Inst's exoskeleton was mounted with a small, powerful winch whose cable ended in a snap-hook. He could make fast to hoisting hooks located at the tops of the airbike fuselages to prevent a crash—perhaps. Of course, he couldn't save both at once. That, too, seemed to tickle the minister and the general.

Inst also wore a medical kit and long-range communicator. A pair of vision enhancers, flipped up, rode his brow. Clipped to the power pack on his back was a blaster.

Alacrity had been very dubious about that last, but anyone on the ground out in the wilds was liable to run into large, vicious things that were hungry and prepared to do something about it.

Crew people gingerly lifted
Feather
to fit her into her launch slot. Dincrist, Kuss, and a few followers came after. The tycoon's choice of the presbyter as partner made sense; the athletic clergyman had airbiking experience. And, he'd been one of those unhorsed and humiliated during the wood-sprite prank.

Jaw set and eyes narrowed, he now looked disinclined to discuss matters of the spirit with Floyt or anyone else.

More crew took up
Thistle
now.
Feather
would launch from station number one,
Thistle
from number five, in order to minimize the chances of friction between the two teams.

Tiajo sat near the hangar, with Dorraine, Redlock, Inst, and the two Severeemish. "I'm going to make sure the rules're clear," Alacrity said and ambled off in their direction. Admiral Maska intercepted him.

"I just wanted to wish you and Hobart well," the sleepy-eyed Srillan said. "I hope the Strange Attractors favor you."

"Strange Attractors?" Alacrity had heard the term somewhere, but couldn't recall its meaning.

"Antiquated terminology. It's come to represent the hidden forces holding sway over chaotic dynamics—you know: air turbulence, electrical potential across cell membranes, and so forth."

"Oh. Right. Well, we could definitely use 'em on our side. And an engine; I wouldn't mind one of those, either."

Maska snuffled laughter and added, "When a system is no longer deterministic, Strange Attractors are at work. Good luck, Alacrity."

"Thank you, Maska." He watched the admiral walk away.

Floyt and Sintilla made their way to launch slot five. At number one, Dincrist and Kuss had stripped down and were doing loosening-up exercises. Floyt shed his heavy coat; Sintilla held it for him as he too warmed up in the chilly air. The light of Halidome was just touching the uppermost reaches of Frostpile, turning it to orange-red intaglio.
Feather's
team began boarding, moving gently and carefully.

The Terran glanced around and saw that Alacrity still stood near the nobles, but he appeared to be on the periphery of things. Redlock was erect in the manner of an ancient Prussian, Dorraine on his arm. She seemed to be addressing Seven Wars formally. After a brief exchange, the minister gave the queen a courteous bow; she returned it with a grateful nod of the head.

Floyt had stopped exercising and was watching Inst, who'd listened to the conversation with a certain tension on his face and glanced at Alacrity several times. The breakabout hadn't noticed.

At length, Alacrity got Tiajo's attention and began to speak. The grandam rolled her eyes to the sky, then barked something at him. Alacrity spread his hands, hunched his head down between his shoulders, and turned toward the launch stations.

As he walked, though, Heart appeared, stopping him. Dincrist, slowly pedaling to test his ship, was in no position to take notice.

She was stunning in an outfit all of red suede and heel-length hooded, crimson fur. She took his hand, squeezing it emphatically, and said something. Then she threw her arms around him, kissed him fleetingly but very hard, and was gone before he could reply.

He was still dazed when he arrived at the launch slot.

"I don't think he needs to do any warmups."

"There's no time anyway, Sintilla," Floyt replied.

Alacrity broke his distraction. He doffed his coat, and he and Floyt handed their proteuses over to Sintilla, every gram of weight being important in airbike racing. Besides, the instruments would only get in the way or be damaged. That left them in sweatbands, shorts, light helmets, and cycling shoes.

They boarded, Floyt taking the rear seat, which position was still known, after centuries, as the stoker. Sintilla looked them over, then announced cheerfully, "I just
know
you two are going to make me rich!" She stepped back as a crew chief sealed them into the fuselage with a thermowand.

They were seated on long, narrow saddles, Floyt directly behind Alacrity. They began fitting the cleats of their shoes into the pedal impressions and adjusting toe clips and straps.

"Nice sendoff you got there," Floyt commented casually, his own voice sounding strange to him in the close fuselage. It was narrow, not much longer than the pedal frame, but high enough for them to sit erect.

Alacrity looked back over his shoulder at the Terran's innocent expression for a moment, then went back to settling in. "She told me she hopes we win," he said quietly.

Alacrity fit his shoulders into the brackets he'd have to use in order to pedal effectively; his hands held the control grips. Movements of the grips' stem also controlled movement of
Thistle,
so that it couldn't be used for leverage. On the control yoke were a crude altimeter, airspeed indicator, horizon indicator, and compass. Floyt was provided simple downswept Maes-type handlebars, which was fine with him.

Since airmasks weren't needed yet, they let them dangle around their necks. Floyt found that his saddle was soft and not slick, which pleased him in view of the sweating he expected to be doing very shortly.

Alacrity was still testing his controls. Floyt asked, "What was Dorraine saying to Seven Wars?"

"What? Oh, something or other about that Thorn Cup thing we're all supposed to drink tonight before the Will-reading. She can't take part in the ceremony. There goes Inst."

Manipulating the controls on his chest panel, Inst, standing almost upright, shot away into the sky at high speed.

"Why couldn't Dorraine drink from the Cup?" Floyt persisted. "Don't the Severeemish expect it?"

"Huh? Ho, for Fate's sake! Would you mind thinking about the race? If we lose, you can count on old Tiajo to yang us
good
!"

Undoubtedly true, but Floyt had no intention of losing the race. The two began a slow cadence, pedaling at a leisurely twenty rpm, bringing the propeller up to an idle.

Floyt's inquisitive bent made him plow on. "I'm just curious, Alacrity. If you can't remember what Dorraine said, you should just say so, not bite a man's head off."

"Remember? Of course I remember! Uh, there's some sort of rule or stricture, from way back in her ancestors' time. Something or other about, 'Comfort those in sorrow, but look to the life hereafter, and do not drink the bitter dregs of grief.' Or something. Now will you let me alone and concentrate on the race?"

But that's not right!
Floyt thought to himself. He knew something about the royal family of Agora; that was part of the material he'd become familiar with while researching the monograph that had come to Weir's attention.

He reached back in memory as the prop spun faster and he watched the muscles tense in the breakabout's back. The stricture ran on the order of, "Comfort those in sorrow, and, looking to the life hereafter, sweeten the bitter dregs of grief."

An obscure stricture, yet certainly not one that Dorraine should have gotten so wrong. But why should she—"

"Hang on!" Alacrity warned. Tiajo's hand was on the release. Floyt put thought from his mind and abandoned himself to pedaling. Their cadence rose to over ninety rpm, the prop's slightly higher.
Thistle
vibrated as though eager. Tiajo pressed the release.
Thistle
and
Feather
slid down their launch slots.

And Floyt found himself flying.

True airbike racing had begun as a sport wherein contestants began from a standing start at ground level and, by dint of soaring techniques and Homeric pedaling, covered a certain distance and reached a specified altitude, usually in a race to a higher landing spot.

But the sport's popularity grew beyond the elite band of dedicated masochists who were actually capable of such a feat; there were those who wanted to know how it felt to be a "real" airbike racer. The launch slots were born.

Floyt was gratified that the race wasn't the real thing. He doubted he and the breakabout would ever have gotten above ground-effect altitude.

As it was, they soared in the orange-red light of Epiphany's dawn, the planet's strange, enchanted landscape rolling by beneath the transparent undercarriage. Floyt was ecstatic, for all the fact that
Thistle
was a slow and wallowing bird.

The pedals spun and the chain whirred softly. The propeller sang. Both men breathed easily, and the dawn air was still. There was no other sound.

"Stay centered and let me do the balancing," Alacrity repeated. Floyt calmly chalked it up to anxiety.