All of these goddamn theoretical analyses are taking the humanity out of warfare.
—Unidentified admiral,
responding to a Center for Naval Analyses lecture
I wandered around in a dull fog as darkness fell. I was confused and trying not to cry.
Something crackled as I walked. I patted my back pocket and pulled out the red lollipop. I looked at it a full minute, then heaved it away from me as hard as I could. It clacked onto the street a few seconds later.
My testicles ached dully, a mild, underlying tug of pain like a bruised shin, a feeling I didn't understand. They felt heavy. I craved a cigarette. My knees trembled as I walked, looking down at the dark pavement sliding aimlessly beneath me. Bitch, bitch, bitch.
Somebody passed me. I barely looked at him as I asked if he knew where I could find a cigarette. He led me indoors and got one from someone else. I grabbed it without thanking either of them, went into the hall, and lit it from a Japanese lantern on the floor. The man I'd followed stood in the open doorway, silent as I drew in a deep lungful of smoke and breathed it out in a wispy cloud tinged by the flame's light. I grew annoyed at him watching me and looked at him to say thanks, but get lost.
Malachi Lee.
Somehow that was worse than him being a stranger. I stared dumbly. He stared back. I dropped my gaze, turned, and left, almost running. I smoked the entire cigarette as I walked briskly, no destination in mind. The smoke made me cough. My lungs felt scratchy. I liked it.
I stopped and flicked the still burning cigarette from my fingers, staring at a dark building without even realizing it was a building. It was just a shape to me, a pattern my brain hadn't taken the effort to label.
What did she do, Garey? I asked myself. Really, what did she do that was so wrong?
Nothing. It's me. She couldn't have known. I was making a big deal out of nothing.
No—it wasn't nothing.
True. But it wasn't her fault, either.
Mine, then. Was I so naive? It would seem so. I just didn't understand. It all happened so fast.
It felt good.
Face tightening, I stepped forward and brought my foot down hard on the glowing cigarette and ground it satisfyingly beneath my heel. "Fuck sex," I said aloud. That made me laugh, but mirthlessly. I turned back around to regard the building before me. The National Air and Space Museum. "I suppose that's where they keep all the national air and space," I muttered.
A dry laugh from behind startled me. I spun, hands groping for a non-present Fred. Shit—I'd left it in her room.
The oversized form of Tom Pert resolved from the darkness. "And the National Hot Air Museum is just down the road a piece," he added. "Better known by its branch names: the Capitol and the White House." He wore a heavy one-handed broadsword at his side. Malachi had told me that, like himself, Tom Pert had had his sword long before the Change.
He came closer. "Malachi said you had headed this way. Want some company?"
I wanted to say no, that he had no right to be here, but realized he was only trying to help. "Everybody's trying to help," I said, not realizing I'd spoken aloud until he answered.
"That's because you're helping us."
"I want my magic back," I said accusingly. "Can you understand that?"
"I can recognize it." Something in his voice made it seem like a compromise, an incompleteness on his part. "I can try to help you get it back. I want to try. So does Malachi. And Mac. And that young woman who's in love with you. Shaughnessy."
Well, there it was. Out there on the floor for the cat to sniff at for the first time. "I can't help what anyone feels," I said heavily. "I can't help how I feel, either. And I don't want to." I looked up at him. "Is that selfish?"
"Yes. But we're all entitled to some selfishness. But I won't lecture you, Pete. I think you want someone to tell you that what you're doing is okay, someone who'll advise you because you don't want to commit yourself. I won't do it, nor would anyone who saw your predicament. I don't understand it and I wouldn't pretend to. I'm a little jealous of you for your unicorn. Most of us are, a bit. But I wouldn't be in your shoes for the world."
I nodded. Yeah, I guess I could understand that.
He touched my shoulder. "Come inside."
The door was open. I followed him in.
Da Vinci would have died content had he been able to see this place. All the ways human beings had ever flown were represented here in full scale. Near one wall the dark, ghostly shapes of two biplanes engaged in a permanent dogfight. Ahead sat the stubby cone of a Gemini capsule. We almost had that, I thought as we walked past it. Those points of light were at fingertips' edge, then snatched away. Our footsteps clattered eerily as we walked.
"I like to come here," said Tom. "I don't exactly know why; it depresses the hell out of me."
Because there's poetry here, I thought; melancholy remnants of the crowning achievements of a civilization rested here, wasting away. Nevermore to grace the night—where had I heard that before?
I stroked the dark wing of a mock-up of Pappy Boyington's F4U Corsair, the terror of World War Two. Tom and I stared wistfully at a model of the Apollo-Soyuz docking. The Starship Enterprise hung mournfully, a reminder of broken dreams. A half-scale mock-up of the Shuttle Enterprise stood beside it in mute testimony.
It made you sad, this place, and threatened to provoke anger by taunting you, yet it drew you in, eager to satisfy your morbid curiosity. It was so dark in there we barely saw where to walk, but we took our time and felt out the shapes of the useless aerial silhouettes like blind men tugging at an elephant.
I was crying again and couldn't help it. Tom respected me by saying nothing, doing nothing, until it passed, and the last of my sobs had stopped echoing in the dark and my eyes had dried, and then we walked on.
We stopped before an impossible thing. It looked as if it was built for a world with no gravity, as if it would collapse under its own weight. The pale moonlight, which illuminated the inside just enough to keep us from bumping into things, sparkled on the incredibly thin dragonfly wings.
"The Gossamer Condor," I said. "I remember reading about this. It was the first man-powered aircraft."
Tom nodded. "It was seventy-five years after the Wright brothers flew before they did it," he said. "The designer got the Kremer prize for it."
I studied the fragile thing. Its ninety-foot-wide main wing glistened as if wet. It had taken high technology to produce this craft that had realized one of humankind's oldest dreams. The wings were thin Mylar plastic; the rest of it was incredibly light metal, woods, and plastic. The whole thing weighed about seventy pounds; I could have pulled it along with one arm. "Wouldn't it be nice if we had about a dozen of these things?" I asked. "We could come in on the Empire State Building from above."
"I don't think so," said Tom. "The ability to produce this thing simply doesn't exist anymore. And even if it did, it took a very small, very strong person to operate it. He was a jockey who weighed about one-thirty, I believe. Offhand, I can't think of anyone in Washington that small and that strong. That, plus I don't know if it'd go high enough to reach the top of the Empire State Building." He stroked his beard with thumb and forefinger. "The wings would snap in strong winds. Even if you could get it up on a still day, the convection currents rising up the sides of the building would be more than enough to break—" He stopped, thoughtful. A smile crept across his face. "Well," he said distinctly. "I will be dipped in shit." His eyes glittered like the wings of the dragonfly aircraft. "I didn't even think of it. It didn't even occur to me." He turned to me like a man in a dream, one who liked it there and didn't want to come back. "Convection currents," he said, as if that explained everything. I waited for more, but nothing else came.
He needs a pipe, I thought absurdly. He should be a huge, easy-going psychiatrist, or an English professor, smoking a pipe and staring out the window without seeing the world outside.
Displayed in front of the Gossamer Condor were da Vinci's designs for man-powered flight, arrayed in light, carefully crafted wooden replicas: the dream and the dream realized.
"Come on," said Tom. "If they were holding an exhibit on man-powered flight, then there has to be a hang glider around here somewhere."
I looked past him at a dark silhouette by a corner wall. I pointed at it. "Will that do?"
He turned, with a religious fanatic's look on his face. Behind a glass stand with a picture of Francis M. Rogallo and accompanying text was an assembled hang glider with an eighteen-foot wingspan. A mannequin hung in the center. The hang glider was suspended in front of a painted backdrop, but it had grown too dark for me to make out what the painting was.
"Go find Malachi and Mac," he ordered suddenly, as though he were shifting gears. "Bring them back here."
"What are you going to do?"
"I," he said, smiling, "am going to try to get that thing down. Now get."
* * *
At the main building of the Smithsonian I asked around until I found Malachi and Mac and explained to them that Torn wanted them at the Air and Space Museum. On the way to the museum Mac could stand it no longer and demanded to know what was going on.
"Your guess is as good as mine," I told him. "What's a convection current?"
He shrugged. "You got me. Malachi?"
Malachi pursed his lips thoughtfully but didn't answer.
We found Tom at the man-powered flight exhibit. He had managed to put on the mannequin's harness and strap himself into the hang glider, and he stood before us like a stylized Hawkman from Flash Gordon. He was giggling. It was unnerving. He just kept chuckling at some private joke as he unbuckled himself from the giant kite and gestured pridefully to it like a magician setting up his best trick.
Mac and I looked on wonderingly. Malachi watched interestedly, nodding to himself as though everything were happening according to his expectations.
Still wearing the harness, Tom stood in front of us, the dark wedge of the hang glider behind him. "Convection currents," he said.
"You'll need to go in the late afternoon," said Malachi calmly. "The heat will be best then."
Tom nodded. Mac and I exchanged looks. "What?" we asked.
"Tell them, tell them." Tom gestured impatiently.
"Convection currents," said Malachi. "Updrafts of warm air replacing cold air, rising from sun-heated areas of land. Or, in the case of New York City, concrete.
"Oh." A light bulb clicked on in my head. Mac still looked confused. "Warm air rises," I told him. "It provides lift."
"Oh," he said, echoing me, as his own little bulb winked on.
Tom spoke in a rush. "Warm air constantly replaces cool. There's a continuous rush of air up the sides of tall buildings. It's especially strong in the late afternoon, when the concrete is hottest. Actually, early evening would be best. The air would be cooling while the concrete still radiated absorbed heat. But we don't want to fight at night, not given a choice."
His enthusiasm was catching. "We can send an air team," Mac said. "There was a place—a sporting goods shop—they had hang gliders, at least half a dozen of them."
"Elite Sports," supplied Tom. He thought a minute. "An updraft up the side of the World Trade Center," said Tom rapidly. "We could jump off and circle to get initial lift. The Empire State Building would provide more, so that, even if we lost enough height to put us below the eighty-sixth floor, we could circle and lift."
"Hold on," said Malachi imperturbably, the eye of the hurricane. "Don't count your chickens yet."
"But—" we all began in unison.
He went on, crowding out our voices. "We leave day after tomorrow," he said. "We'll have that long to round up a team and learn to fly these things. We have to figure out if the lift will be enough. We have to find someone here who's done it enough to know what he's talking about. An assault team has to be trained; we need a plan of action."
"There was a place not five miles from me when I lived in California," interrupted Tom, "that used to offer hang glider flights down a slope for fifteen bucks. Minimal instruction provided. As I said, I tried it a few times. There's not all that much to it, Malachi."
"Perhaps not, for simple flights," he admitted. "But you're talking jumping from one skyscraper, flying three and a half miles, and landing on another." There was a pause. "But—" he gave a grudging half-smile "—it's all we've got. We'll want to get an early start tomorrow, so I suggest we get the gliders tonight and then go to bed. Pete, I'll bring one back for you."
"I'm coming with you!"
"No. You're going to put a notice up on the bulletin board telling anybody with any experience at this to report to Tom." It was everybody's duty to keep abreast of announcements on the bulletin board in the huge Smithsonian lobby.
"Oh." Why was he always so infernally reasonable? "Okay."
Tom nodded. Grinning like a bandit, he began to applaud himself. Mac joined in and I was a close third. Malachi remained stony. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day," he said.
We each shot him the same sour look: party pooper. Yet we knew we needed his hard-headed pragmatism. I couldn't help but hope—for myself, for Ariel—yet I couldn't afford to hope. Not too much. Leave it to Malachi to keep our feet on the ground long enough for us to see what we were doing.
Just the same—and I only saw it because of where I stood—a smile crossed his face as he turned and stalked out of the dark museum.
* * *
The first thing to hit me when I walked into my room was the smell. It wasn't the chamber pot; I'd emptied it that afternoon and covered it when I put it back. It was me. Or rather, traces of me. McGee, I reflected wryly, had been diplomatic and most restrained when she'd suggested I take a bath. The room smelled as though somebody had shit in a football player's locker. Where's the body? my nose demanded.
Okay—the sheets go first. Might as well throw them away; I doubted washing them would do any good.
Fred lay on the stained white sheets. I picked it up. A note dangled from the handle. I removed it and unfolded it. Ruled notebook paper and a disgustingly neat handwriting:
Pete,
I feel I must write you this note, as I do not want animosity between us. I couldn't understand why you fled the room as you did, though it was obvious you were quite upset. I didn't understand, that is, until Mac came by later and told me about you and your unicorn.
Believe me, Pete, I didn't know. There are some women who would attempt to seduce you with malicious intent, knowing full well what it would cost you and your Familiar. I am not one of those.
Mac was angry with me. He called me a whore, though he's too much a gentleman to say so in those words. I make no apologies, just as none are expected from you. What I am sorry for is your consternation. If only I'd known!
And—truly!—I would like to meet your Familiar someday. She must be marvelous.McGee
P.S. I brought your sword back. Don't worry—I know better than to touch the blade.
* * *
I sat on the stained and smelly sheets and read it at least five times by the flickering light of my lone candle before folding it and wedging it beneath the pewter candle holder. Then I stripped the sheets from my cot, tossed them into a corner to be dealt with in the morning, and turned the mattress over. I slept on the bare bed, hugging Fred as though it were a teddy bear.
* * *
Mac burst into my room just after dawn and almost lost his head. "Goddam!" he yelled, leaning back severely. "You and Malachi are just alike with those things."
"Habit," I mumbled sleepily, though mentally I felt alert. "You should cultivate one sometime."
He made a rude noise. "Try sneaking up on me sometime and see what happens."
I sheathed Fred. "'Do unto others . . . .'"
"Come on, get up. We go the Icarus route today."
"Chirp."
The morning chill was invigorating. Tom and Malachi were already waiting at the foot of the stairs. On the sidewalk were six brightly colored nylon bags, thin and about twenty feet long. Six hang gliders, which meant we'd have seven people—assuming the one Tom had retrieved from the Air and Space Museum was operable.
"Ah, Pete," said Tom. "Would you care to act as our step and fetchit this morning?"
"Sure. What am I fetching?"
"The rest of our team."
"I take it our bulletin yielded some results?"
He nodded. "First there's Walt."
"Is he well enough?"
He shrugged. "He's been up and around since the day after he came back; it was just exhaustion that got to him. I want him; he's an excellent swordsman. He's never hang glided, but he used to fly an ultralight, which is good enough for me." He paused. "Next is Drew Zenoz. He's the one who solo scouted New York and brought Shaughnessy back. He's young—a little older than you, Pete, but reliable. I think he's in it mostly to make an impression. Still, he's serious, and I'm not in a position to turn down volunteers. Plus he's been to New York recently, which helps. Familiarity might prove an asset."
I nodded, warmed by the implication that my own age meant nothing to them. "Who's third?"
"Hank Rysetter. He looked me up late last night after you posted the notice on the bulletin board. He's got a Hang Two rating, so he gets to play teacher. He's a good fighter, and one of the best bowmen I've ever seen. I've watched him put out candles from over fifty yards."
He told me where to find each of the three. I left as they were compiling small tool kits for each team member. The hang gliders, folded and waiting in their long, colorful nylon bags, lay side by side at the foot of the steps.
* * *
I knocked softly at Drew Zenoz's door. He answered sleepily, unarmed and in his underwear. They sent this guy to scout New York? I was surprised he'd made it back; he didn't seem nearly paranoid enough.
He woke up considerably after I explained what was going on. I told him to meet Tom, Malachi, and Mac on the front steps and left him as he struggled into a pair of pants.
* * *
Hank Rysetter answered the door nude, alert, and with a Bowie knife held nonchalantly in his free hand near his thigh. He was my size but more muscular, and had curly black hair and bushy eyebrows. There was something of the ideal Byzantine in his features.
He relaxed when I introduced myself; apparently he knew who I was. I rapidly explained why I'd rudely awakened him and he nodded and invited me in while he dressed, opening the door wide and turning his back on me. He picked clothes from a heap on the floor at the foot of his cot. The original office furniture hadn't been removed, but had instead been pushed against one wall. His target bow stood by the head of the cot. It would have cost a pretty penny before the Change.
I told him where to find the others and left to find Walt.
* * *
His door was open. I rapped on it anyhow; one learns not to walk into people's rooms unannounced. He was already up and dressed, and he seemed pretty fit.
"Well, hello," he said when I entered. "How're you getting along?"
"Fine, thanks. I heard about what happened."
He frowned. "Yeah, it was pretty bad. Is this a social call? I'm not trying to give you the bum's rush, but I wanted to get an early start today. There's a lot to do before we set out tomorrow morning. I'm helping a bunch of people finish building shields."
"I think you can skip shield-making today."
* * *
We sat on the front steps of the Smithsonian while Hank lectured to us. He showed us how to assemble the kites, how to carry them, and how to put on the harnesses and buckle ourselves in. After going over the basics for flying the kites he said, "All right, I could talk till next week about how to fly one of these things, even though there isn't that much to it, but nothing's going to teach you how to fly better than flying. So everybody pick out a kite, and let's fly."
I stood up. The sun was directly overhead. People bustled everywhere, hurrying to get things done before tomorrow. They looked worried and impatient.
Tom gestured at the long bags. "Pick a kite, any kite."
According to Hank the ideal-length hang glider for my weight—about 155—was eighteen feet, measuring along the central keel. These all had twenty-foot keels, easily capable of supporting the weight of the heaviest of us, who was Tom, who weighed in at one ninety-five. I would do well with the twenty-foot keel; the low wind loading on the larger sail area would mean better soaring performance—I could stay up longer. I picked out the nearest kite and separated it from the rest.
"All right," said Hank, "the next step, obviously, is to find a good hill and learn it the real way now."
"I think, too," said Malachi, "that we ought to find a building we can jump from. Apparently that's an entirely different thing, and I want to at least have an idea of how to do it before New York. I don't want to jump blind from the World Trade Center."
"Sounds reasonable," agreed Tom. "Any suggestions as to which building? There's nothing here to compare with the World Trade Center."
"There's an office building a few miles from here," said Mac. "The roof's flat and one side faces a bit of a slope, though the slope itself wouldn't be any good to us. But at least there aren't any power lines around."
"We don't have to worry about power lines anymore," said Drew.
"Oh, yeah? You try untangling yourself with a twenty-foot kite on your back."
"How about a slope?" asked Tom.
"On Louisiana Avenue," Hank suggested, "there's a hill that ought to be good enough for a short flight."
"Then what are we waiting for?" We picked up our hang glider bags and set out.
* * *
The hill was perfect. A dozen cars were stopped on it, though, so we put them in neutral, released their emergency brakes, and pushed them one at a time. They picked up speed and rolled downhill until they smashed into the cars stopped at a blind red light. We began at the bottom and worked our way up, sending cars crashing behind us. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it took a while because we stopped to watch each car glide smoothly down the hill until it smashed into the others below. Eventually there was a twenty-car pile-up at the foot of the hill, but it wouldn't present a problem—if we made it that far on our trial flights, we ought to be able to fly over it.
We dug out our minimal tool kits and began assembling the gliders. I put the frame together, fitting the wing spars and keel into the nose plate and tightening it securely. Rigging wire, which helped relieve the pressure on the wing edges during flight, went to each angle of the A-shaped frame, held there by turnbuckles. They were held taut and away from the sail itself by being attached to the triangular "trapeze" control bar at the bottom and the king post at the top. I made sure the flying wires were secure and not about to slacken from being hooked around turnbuckles. The rigging was thousand-pound test stainless steel, and helped the paraglide sail maintain its shape. The sail was made of Dacron, the same material used by many sailboats. It had the advantage of being light, strong, and nonporous. It stretched across the A-frame of lightweight aluminum tubing. Jesus bolt through the channel bracket, trapeze bar fitted and rigging wire anchored, and swing-seat strap and link fitted and adjusted to what I hoped was centered for my weight and bulk, and I had a fully assembled Rogallo-winged hang glider
Putting it together took about fifteen minutes. I gave a walk-around inspection to make sure everything was tightened and fitted correctly. Malachi was right; I didn't want to fuck up and miss the only chance I was going to have to get Ariel back. Having assembled our gliders, we examined each other's. Better safe than sorry.
The trailing edges of the sails flapped in the breeze. We faced them nose-down into the wind so they wouldn't be flipped over or cartwheeled away. Next we fitted ourselves into the swing-seat harnesses that, along with crash helmets, Malachi, Tom, and Mac had also brought from Elite Sports. The harness was an ingeniously simple device. It looked like a sort of combination jockstrap/suspenders and felt about the same. Standing straight made it pull in on the insides of my thighs and press down on my shoulders. I asked Mac to loosen the leg straps a little for me and he obliged. My harness was yellow and black; the helmet I strapped on was bright red, and the gliders themselves were bright, vibrant colors. We were going to sneak up on the Empire State Building in day-glow camouflage.
We were ready. I grinned nervously at Mac. He grinned back, just as nervous, I think.
"Well, Hank, m'boy," said Tom, clapping him on the shoulder, "since you're the one with the most experience at this, I think you ought to be the first, so we can follow your shining example."
Hank smiled thinly. "Yeah, okay, okay. First things first. Help me carry the glider to the middle of the road. Only carry it by the rigging wires."
I grabbed the rigging on the left side, Mac grabbed the right, and Hank held the two wires leading from nose to bottom corners of the trapeze bar. The kite was surprisingly light, but difficult to maneuver because of its bulk. It wasn't a creature of the ground, but of the air.
"There's a decent breeze today," Hank said, after we set the glider down in the center of the asphalt. "When we finish our flights we ought to be able to 'fly' the kites back up the hill. You do it by holding on to the nose wires and keeping the nose up and into the wind. Let it fill with air and then walk forward slowly." He buckled his chin strap. "Let's do it. Somebody want to hold the nose up for me while I climb in?"
Tom came forward and held the nose level while Hank carefully picked his way through the rigging, knelt down before the trapeze bar, reached behind himself awkwardly, and grabbed the heavy-duty clip buckle attached to the back of the harness. He attached it to the link hanging from the keel just behind the trapeze bar. "I can't stress this enough," he said. "The first thing to do is to always make a hang check. Be sure to clip yourself on; it's easier to forget than you might think. If you jump off the World Trade Center without hooking yourself to your kite, it'll keep going and you won't." He lowered himself prone, placing his hands at either side of the trapeze bar. He hung four inches off the pavement. We gathered closer to see. "Let the glider take your weight," he said. "See how you're hanging or, better yet, get someone else to stand in front of you and see. How's it look, Tom?"
"You're hanging in the center, not leaning to either side, with your chest even with the bar."
"Good. Now, this is the tricky part." His grip tightened on the trapeze bar. "This thing is really sensitive to your commands. You're what steers the kite; you're its center of gravity because of the way you hang here. So if I want to turn left, I shift my weight to the left." He straightened his right arm, pushing his body toward the left side of the kite. "Make sure you move your hips and legs over, and not just your chest, or your body will compensate by doing this." He deliberately did it wrong, so that his chest moved to the left but his hips remained centered and his legs moved to the right. "See? I haven't done anything; my weight's still centered." He returned to neutral position. "This is your flying position: relaxed, not forcing your body anywhere unless you want to alter your flight. Your hands should stay at either end of the bar. You're going to be excited but don't grab it in a death grip. It takes a few seconds for the kite to respond when you want to turn, but when it does, it turns fast. Don't turn too much or you'll stall.
"The mistake most beginners make is overcorrecting—moving the bar too far forward or back. It's hard to get used to the fact that it hardly takes any effort to make this thing stall or go faster. If you stall, pull in on the bar. The answer to almost everything is to pull in on the bar. You're better off being high and going fast—the more speed you have, the more control you have. Like riding a bicycle."
"I can usually get up afterward if I wreck a bicycle," Mac muttered.
Hank ignored him. "No matter what happens, don't panic. We'll be high up, and that's actually better—you have lots of time to correct. If worse comes to worst and you stall and don't know what to do, just relax and let it stall. The kite parachutes down. But don't try to turn on a stall—I saw one woman crush her wrist because she got about thirty feet up and stiff-armed the bar.
"Position the nose so that it's just a little above level. Don't look down, look straight out." He picked up the kite. "Heads up, Tom. Okay, I'm going to run full-out, even after my feet start to leave the ground, and as soon as I'm in the air I'm going to push the bar out just a little bit to get height, then go to neutral position to glide on down. To land I'm going to push the bar all the way out and stall, and—I hope—I should flare up and parachute down." He grinned. "Ready, set . . . go!"
He took three running steps and was airborne. His next few steps were imaginary ones taken in the air. His kite—red, green, and blue striped—angled out from the hill for a few seconds, gained height until he was about twelve feet up, relative to the slope of the hill, and angled down again. He raced along, level with the slope of the hill, and sailed smoothly over the mass of collided cars. Then his descent seemed so rapid and steep that it looked as if his crash were inevitable. His chest was two feet from the asphalt when he pushed the bar forward. The kite, which had been riding along on its own cushion of air, flared up. Hank swung his feet down and touched the asphalt, light as you please.
I realized we were all cheering. All but Malachi, of course, who nevertheless looked awfully pleased.
Hank stumbled a bit, but recovered quickly and set the nose down immediately. He unbuckled himself. "Whooooooeee! Make sure you put the nose down, or you'll get blown over." He walked around to the front of the kite, lifted the nose, walked his hands down the lead rigging wires, and let the wind lift the sail. He began "flying" the kite back up the hill. "Who's next?" he asked when he reached us, setting his kite to the side with the nose down into the light breeze. "Tom?"
"Oh, what the hell." Tom carried his glider to the middle of the road, picked his way through the rigging, and buckled himself in. He lowered himself into prone position. "How's it look?"
Hank eyed him carefully from in front of the glider. "Perfect. I'll run down the hill and call up to you. If I tell you to do something, just do it, okay?"
"Right, coach."
Hank trotted down the hill and sat on the hood of a white Maverick. "Ready when you are," he called up.
Tom grimaced. He positioned his arms on the bar, set the angle of the nose, and ran. Four sprinting steps, and up he went.
"Pull out!" Hank called from below. Tom complied and the glider gained height. "Now in!" The blue-and-white sail dipped, gliding down the hill. "Left! Left! Okay, neutral! Perfect! You're flying it; just ride it out." Tom sailed over the cars and continued past the intersection, barely skimming the road. Hank called after him. "Push the bar out! You're—oh, hell." Tom pushed the bar out, but was much too late. He belly-skimmed on the asphalt for ten feet before the nose plunked down in front of him and he stopped. He unbuckled and came out. "Well, my goodness," was all he said. Hank ran to him and they carried the glider back up the hill. Tom's shirt was a little worse for the wear and his stomach could have used a squirt of Bactine, but otherwise he was fine. "Malachi?" he said.
Malachi nodded and set up his glider, which was bright yellow with a red V in the center. He methodically checked himself out, picked up the kite, set himself, and ran. Suddenly his feet were off the ground and he was speeding down the hill. His straight-line trajectory wavered for a second, but he corrected and landed light as a feather, a dozen feet past the spot where Tom had touched down. He unbuckled and nosed the kite down.
"He makes me sick," muttered Tom. He trotted down the hill to help him with the kite.
"Pete next," he said as they set Malachi's kite to the side.
I swallowed, suddenly feeling it was much easier to watch than to do. Hank returned to his spot on the hood of the Maverick. "Just listen and do what I say," he called up, "and everything will be fine."
I stepped to the center of the road and climbed through the rigging. My foot caught on one of the wires and I pulled it free before I tripped. I twisted around, grabbed the buckle, and clipped myself on.
"Hang check," Tom reminded me.
I nodded and lowered prone. The harness tugged on my shoulders. I kept my head up.
"Looks good to me," he said.
I knelt and lifted the bar as I'd seen the others do. It was heavier than I'd expected. I felt awkward with the added weight above me; my center of gravity had shifted from the pit of my stomach to the top of my chest. I felt strangely buoyed. I let the sail fill with air until it was rigid, two arcs spreading seagull-like from the central keel to the wing spars. I took a deep breath. It's really easy, I told myself. Just remember what Hank told you. Nothing to it. You have to develop familiarity with the kite, and a sense of how to react, but the basics are easy as hell. A twelve-year-old could do it. Twelve-year-olds had done it. I nodded to myself. I experimentally moved the bar, feeling the balance shift in the kite above me, stopping when it felt right. The wind was nice and smooth—now or never. I ran.
Holding the bar in and down made it awkward, but after no more than three steps the weight began to lighten from my feet. I felt I had no traction. Keep running, I told myself. Run until they aren't touching the road any longer. I kept the bar in firmly and tried to keep the nose up. Angle of attack, Hank had called it. How appropriate.
My harness grew taut as my weight settled into it. My feet dangled: an odd, helpless feeling. I remembered to push the bar away a few inches to gain height. The angle of attack became higher as the kite's center of gravity—me—moved toward the rear.
"Keep your head up," called Hank. "Don't look at the ground!"
I looked away from the pavement blurring beneath me and relaxed until I was in neutral position. I was gliding down the slope, I was doing it!
I'd been in the air no more than five seconds when I was speeding over the wrecked cars. Hank flattened himself on the hood as I sailed over him. The road rushed up. I had to fight a momentary panic that screamed for me to abandon ship. I pushed the bar away and slowed as the ground-cushion effect took hold, and then the kite became a parachute and I settled vertically. I had flared too high, though, and I felt myself backsliding, slipping backward. I pulled the bar in and landed easy as a snowflake.
I unbuckled quickly. My ears pounded. I felt giddy, as if I'd hyperventilated. When I'd been flying, I had been preoccupied with doing it right; all that information had been running across my head and it hadn't really hit me that I'd been flying, I had flown! Now that I was down and out of the glider, the sensations sleeted across me. I grinned like an idiot and applauded myself. Hank jogged up to me, returning my grin, sharing my exhilaration. He helped me tote my kite back up the hill. I grinned at Malachi Lee. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he tilted his face to the sky.
"You're up, Mac," said Tom.
I looked with different-seeing eyes as Mac positioned his kite—an arc of rainbow with a ball of gold at one end. Now I knew what it felt like, and watching was a vicarious thrill.
Mac waited for the wind to stop gusting. I looked at Hank, who had resumed his position at the foot of the hill. Why, he wasn't even a hundred yards away! As Mac rushed forward I realized my flight had lasted no more than ten seconds. The sensations had been enough to fill several good hours.
Mac ended up dry-running it. His last few steps lost their oomph, and instead of lifting off, the tops of his shoes dragged the ground for ten feet. He pulled back on the bar to gain lift, but he had neither speed nor proper angle of attack. His kite nosed up and we watched him dangle like a hung-up marionette for two long seconds, and then the tail of the kite hit the ground, with Mac not far behind. He got up quickly before the wind could flip him onto his back like a Raid-sprayed roach. Cursing, he walked the kite carefully back to us and tried again. This time he lifted smoothly, glided down swiftly and evenly, and settled down onto his knees. He unbuckled and stumbled from the glider. "Oh, well," he said cheerfully. "Any landing you can walk away from." He declined Hank's offer of help and walked the kite back to the top. His eyes were bright. "I think," he said seriously, "I've found a suitable replacement for sex."
I found myself blushing.
"Walt," said Tom mildly.
Walt's flight was something out of the instruction book. Nice.
"Okay, Drew. Curtain up."
Drew got off to a good start, coasted down the slope—and freaked when he saw the cars heading toward him. He shoved the bar away to gain height, but he overdid it and stalled.
"Hold still!" shouted Hank. "Pull in on the bar!"
Drew's legs continued to flail as if he were trying to tread water. He came down on his ass on the roof of a black Cadillac. He hit hard. We ran down to see if he was hurt. The wind had been jarred out of him, but he was okay. Hank helped him out of the rigging and onto his feet, making an obvious effort to be patient. "You can't panic," he said, trying to keep his tone reasoned. "You're going to jump from a fucking fifteen-hundred-foot-tall building, and if you land on the roof of a Cadillac from there you're going to be a permanent part of it. Relax—pay attention. And remember what you've been told."
We went five times apiece, trying for a little more height each time, a little more speed, before calling it a day and deciding to let the jumps off the office building wait until tomorrow. We spent the rest of the evening working out an attack strategy.
No one got killed, or even broke anything, so I guess we did okay.
* * *
The air was charged in the assembly room. A nervous hubbub waxed and waned. Tom had announced the assembly on the bulletin board when we returned from our strategy session, the purpose being to go over the plans for the attack and make sure everybody knew who was doing what.
Tom faced the assembly and cleared his throat. The murmuring died down. "Well, here's the story," he said, electing not to mince words. "We've assembled a hang-gliding team."
He was drowned out by the excited babble that followed the announcement. He waited until it died down. "The team consists of myself, Malachi Lee, Vic Magruder, Hank Rysetter, Walt Bonham, Drew Zenoz, and our latest addition, Pete Garey."
The murmuring rose again. I saw people counting on their fingers as he called our names out, and I heard a few commenting to each other. "Seven people? Seven? Oh, come on . . . ." And one voice from the rear: "Go-o-o-o mice!"
"The rest of you leave for New York early tomorrow morning."
Again his voice was lost. It was like a nominee's speech at a big political convention; every statement was emotionally charged and brought a response. Tom went on when it died down. "Don't rush the march. It's eight days if you make good time without wearing yourselves out. Don't push it any faster than that. Remember, you've got a battle to fight when you get there."
I looked around and saw Shaughnessy sitting with a woman I didn't recognize. She didn't see me. I kept looking around and saw McGee, who smiled and waved when she saw me. I waved back, surprised at how pleased I was to see her.
"You should reach New York in the early morning," Tom continued. "Make sure you get a good sleep the night before; take longer to camp. Because when you get to New York I want you to attack without delay."
He waited until the noise died down enough for him to be heard, then turned to a map of Manhattan mounted on an easel. He pointed to the intersection of two streets. "This is Fifth Avenue," he said, indicating one, "and this is Thirty-fourth Street. The main entrances open out there. That's probably where you'll do your heaviest fighting; it'll be a bottleneck until you can get through. From then on I'm afraid it's a fighting push up the stairs. According to our information from Pete they have a possible eight hundred to a thousand men on the bottom three or four floors."
It was several minutes before it grew quiet enough for him to speak again. Beside me, Mac said, "He ought to have a gavel." I nodded. Tom had upped my estimate of their number a bit, but who could blame him? Better safe than sorry. At least he wasn't bullshitting them about what they were walking into.
"Do all of you know Avery Stondheim? Stand up, Avery." A small, bird-like man stood, turning so the seated people could get a good look at him. "Avery will lead the attack from the Fifth Avenue side. Roger Dawson—stand up, Rog—will lead the Thirty-fourth Street. We'll split our forces equally. Once you're on either the Thirty-fourth Street or the Fifth Avenue side, your respective leaders will tell you what to do." He paused. "The hang-gliding team will leave the day after tomorrow. We'll be traveling on horseback, so we'll probably pass you on the way.
"Why do you get to ride?" someone called out.
Tom ticked off on his fingers. "Because we're carrying twenty-foot-long hang gliders. Because we need the extra day here to practice jumping off buildings. Because we need the extra time to climb the World Trade Center, set up, and jump off."
Silence this time. Amazed stares.
"At three o'clock that afternoon," he continued into the hushed audience, "we'll jump for the Empire State Building. It should take us less than ten minutes to get there. With a little luck they won't notice us, because they aren't expecting an attack from above. Right now, surprise is our only real advantage, both in the air and on the ground. Mr. Garey has estimated that there are two hundred men in those top floors—"
"Two hundred?" said an incredulous voice. "Against seven? That's suicide."
Tom looked toward the voice. "The hang-gliding team, I should say, isn't intended as an effective attack force. I guess it would be more accurate to call it a hit squad. Our primary goal is the necromancer."
The babble in the auditorium sounded as if an astounding fact had just stunned a courtroom. "Our chances aren't good," continued Tom, raising his voice, "and we don't know nearly as much as we should. But it's the best chance we're likely to have. He has powers—" The talking had died and the last three words were spoken too loudly. "He has powers," Tom repeated in a lower voice, "and at the very least we can serve as a distraction while the rest of you fight your way up. If we can keep him busy enough, he might not get a chance to try to stop you." He stopped to let that sink in.
He had neglected to mention something we had discussed earlier: the fighting on the lower levels would also serve as a distraction in the hang-gliding team's favor—the battle might cause reinforcements to be sent down from the upper floors, decreasing the chance of our being spotted as we came in, and increasing our chance of being able to fight our way through.
"But," he went on, "we also might not make it. There's a good possibility we'll be picked off before we even reach the Empire State Building. In which case it's up to you, and you'll have to fight it all the way up."
"That's a hundred stories!" somebody protested.
"Eighty-six, in the main building," Tom responded levelly. "And, as far as we know, the enemy are only located on the bottom three or four and top two or three floors. The middle ground should be the easiest part. Once you get past the bottom four floors, you ought to be home free."
I noticed he said "once" instead of "if."
The next thing I knew the assembly was breaking up amid loud arguments, speculation, expressed fears, and optimism, and Tom was asking that members of the hang-gliding team and the two leaders of the ground forces—how quickly we form our military jargon, I thought—stay behind to go over the whole thing again. Everyone cleared out but the nine of us. I stared at the map of New York as Tom gave instructions on the ground attack to Avery Stondheim and Roger Dawson.
You're it now, you bastard, I thought, looking at the grid of streets. You're all there is.
"As for us," Tom was saying, "we have to go light. No armor, no shields. No heavy weapons. Carry a bow and arrow if you're any good with one; we'll find a way to strap them down so we can get them off quickly but won't fall off before that. Take your sword, of course—I think you can wear it without having to tie it to the glider."
"Tape it to the trapeze bar with duct tape," said Malachi, "and turn an end up so you can pull it away quickly when you need your sword."
Tom nodded. "Hank, you're our archery expert—could you fire a bow while flying one of those things?"
"I don't think so. The kites respond pretty quickly, and if you let go I doubt you'll stay in neutral position. One good gust of wind and you're gone. You could probably recover, sure, but I don't think you'd be able to do that and land on the eighty-sixth floor. Maybe you could do it if you had the bow out and already fitted, but I wouldn't want to try to do that and fly the glider at the same time."
I stared through the far wall. Tom stepped into my field of vision, lifted the map of New York, and set it behind another drawing. "This is a rough map of the eighty-sixth floor, based on a drawing Pete did for us. We're going to have to—Pete, where are you going?"
I looked back at him, only half aware I'd started for the door. "Huh? Oh, I've got to . . . . My blowgun. Shaughnessy has my blowgun." I turned and left. My feet pounded numbly down the hallway, echoing in the huge empty spaces, and I was only dimly aware of reaching my room and sitting down on the edge of the bed.
I sat there for an hour, hands clenched, with the worse case of the shakes I've ever had.
* * *
I knocked on the door.
"Who—oh, hello, Pete."
"Hi, McGee. I came . . . ."
She opened the door to let me in and closed it behind me.
"I'm not sure why I came," I finished lamely.
She studied me.
"I, uh, read your note. I guess that's why I'm here. I mean, what I want to say is, well—thank you. Thank you very much."
"You don't have to thank me, Pete." Her voice was soft.
"I know, but I want to. I—shit, I don't know. McGee, I'm confused."
"You don't have to explain anything to me," she said gently. "I understand."
My jaw worked. "Well I'm glad you do. Maybe you can explain it to me."
She looked at me for a long time. "I don't think I'd want to be in your shoes for anything," she finally said.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because I know what I want. My choices are usually pretty clear; I rarely have any major conflicts." She went to the door and opened it. "And I'm sorry, but I think you'd better leave."
But I stepped toward her.
"No, Pete. I wouldn't do that to you, and I wouldn't let you do it to yourself." And she held the door open for me.
I stood on the other side of it for a few minutes after it closed, still confused.
* * *
Archives Section:
"Uh—" I didn't know her name. "Do you know where I could find Shaughnessy? I've got to get my blowgun from her."
She looked dubious but told me. "She's been rooming with me," she added. I wondered why she did.
The "room" turned out to be a sectioned-off space, a hastily made cubicle of sheets, wood partitions, and curtains, arranged to provide some semblance of privacy. How do you knock on a sheet? I cleared my throat. "Um, anybody home?"
Shaughnessy pulled a sheet aside. "Pete." The distance still seemed to be there. "Hold on a minute. I'm not dressed." She closed the sheet before I could respond. A minute later she emerged, wearing shorts and a blue T-shirt.
"I came for my blowgun," I said without preamble.
"Oh." She looked as if I'd just punched her in the stomach. "I'll . . . get it." She disappeared behind the sheet again and was back in fifteen seconds with the Aero-mag. I looked it over, squinting down the tube to see if anything had got lodged inside, and to make sure it was still straight. It was in fine shape. A little scratched up, maybe, but we'd been through a lot together. I had made darts from piano wire I'd found on the scavenger hunt with Mac, and I pulled one from my back pocket, fitted it, and looked around for something to shoot at. An antique headboard and bedframe leaned against a wall. The mattress had probably been procured by someone with the room for it. I raised the Aero-mag to my lips and puffed as if sounding a low note on a tuba. Thock! It reverberated through the Archives Section. Ignoring Shaughnessy, I walked to the headboard, grabbed the end of the dart, braced one foot against the wood, and pulled, twisting. The bead came loose and I fell onto my back.
I got up quickly, dusting myself off. Shaughnessy looked as though she were trying hard not to laugh. Her face was red.
"What's so damned funny?" I demanded, feeling cloddish.
"You take yourself so seriously," she said when she caught her breath.
"I'm doing serious things, Shaughnessy."
"Oh, Pete." She looked exasperated and changed the subject. "That's really something, being able to hang glide. Maybe you'll be able to get to Ariel." She watched me carefully, gauging my reaction.
"That's why I'm going," I said evenly.
"Is there another glider?"
She looked insulted when I laughed. "No, there isn't. At least, we didn't find another one. Besides, you could get killed."
"For your information, Mister Garey, I am marching with the rest of this army tomorrow."
"You can't."
"I can and I will. And who the hell are you to tell me otherwise?"
"Shaughnessy, look—you don't have to do this for me. This is my fight."
"Your fight! Your fight! You arrogant son of a bitch, what makes you think I'm fighting for you and Ariel in the first place?"
"But I thought—"
"'But' nothing. Do you think all three hundred of these people are fighting to get Ariel back for you? They'd be fighting if you'd never existed, and I happen to believe in what they're fighting for. But I suppose you haven't stopped to consider their reasons for any of this." She snorted. "You don't even care about Ariel—you're trying to save your own feelings, your own selfish interests."
"That's not—"
She wouldn't let me get a word in. "You don't care about her, you don't care about these people and their cause; you don't even care about me, and I've tried everything I can to—" She stopped, eyes widening. "Oh . . . shit!" She disappeared a final time behind her sheet.
For the second time in fifteen minutes I stood behind a closed entranceway, feeling stupid and confused.
* * *
I tried to use the chamber pot in my room and couldn't relax enough. I tried to sleep. I couldn't relax enough, but I had to go to the bathroom. I lay awake and stared up at the blackness, thinking how nice everything would be if only I could use the fucking bathroom.
I was scared. I was surprised at how hard it was to admit that to myself.
I got up and dressed.
* * *
"Shaughnessy?" I whispered beside the silent sheet. "Shaughnessy?"
"Who is it?"
"It's me. Pete."
Another voice, sleepy. "Wha? Time to go already?"
"Shh. No, Deb. Go back to sleep."
She appeared quietly, drawing the sheet aside and stepping into the huge room. She wore the T-shirt and white shorts she'd had on before. "What do you want, Pete?"
A single Japanese lantern burned behind me, casting my shadow upon the sheet, upon half her face. I moved a little to see her more clearly. She looked as if she had been crying.
"Shaughnessy, I—I want to apologize. For the other night, when you came into my room and I yelled at you. I was upset. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. You didn't deserve that."
"It's okay, Pete. I understand."
"No, it's not okay," I said, echoing the words I'd used to begin shouting at her that night. "I need you to understand. I haven't been thinking straight." I tapped my temple with a forefinger. "I feel like I can't see things as they are."
"You need Ariel back," she said simply.
I nodded in the darkness and she shut her eyes. "I understand, Pete. Yes, I do." And without saying any more she turned back inside her little cubicle. I heard her beginning to cry.
I stood there a long time, listening. When it stopped I realized there was a wet streak under each of my own eyes. I wiped them away with my sleeve. And then I left.
* * *
We sat on the front steps and watched them go, Mac, Walt, Rank, Drew, Tom, Malachi, and myself. Occasionally someone would look back and we gave them a heartfelt thumbs-up.
"Well," said Tom after the last of them had turned out of sight, "what are we waiting for? We've got a building to jump off of."