I will multiply your seed as the stars of Heaven, and all this land will I give unto your seed.
—Exodus 32:13
"It's time." The young woman looked up to see her mother, looking concerned. "Are you sure you want to do this? It isn't too late."
"I'm sure," the young woman answered.
Her mother sighed. "You're so pretty. You could marry so well."
"Mother!" A note of steel crept into the young woman's voice. "It's what I want."
"I know dear, it's just . . ." Her mother hesitated. "It's just I worry for you. But I wouldn't stop you if I could." She laughed. "And I never could stop you, you're too much like your father." She straightened up, and the young woman knew she was stiffening her resolve at the same time. "Now, come on. You don't want to be late."
The young woman stood up, and let her mother help her into the fitted white fabric of her outerdress. It wasn't a tradition, just their tradition. "Here," her mother said, and handed her something. "A peregrine's claw. It was your father's. He would want you to have it."
The young woman turned the totem over, testing the razor talons with a finger. She smiled, pleased to be reminded of her father, pleased to have her mother's support. "I can't lose now."
"You can," her mother said. "But you won't."
The young woman slid the claw into a fold of her garment and her mother picked up the fired-clay wine jar that lay by the door. They came out of the tent and onto the platform together, to stand beside the steel-topped post. The crowd along the shore applauded, and the young woman bowed to her opponent, which was a tradition, and to the foredome, which was the tradition. He returned the bow, and then her mother handed her the jar of wine. She raised it high and brought it down hard on the steel, shattering it and spraying the thick fluid everywhere. That was tradition too, but something more, symbolic and powerful. Her pristine outerdress was irrevocably stained with deep red blotches, symbolic of her blood, of the price she was willing to pay to win. She saw she had gotten far more of it on herself than her opponent had with his strike. A good omen. She knew him, knew his style; they had trained together many times. But today he is my enemy.
They bowed to each other again, and turned to walk down to the dock, to the swift netters that would take them to the aftwall. The raft-captains raised sail, and they set off. The voyage to the wall was long, but she used the time to close her eyes and visualize the contest. Her opponent's netter drew ahead of hers, which shouldn't have bothered her, but it did. It didn't matter whose raft got to the wall first, except in her mind. I am my father's daughter. He too was too competitive, too driven to win even unimportant contests, and even imaginary ones. To take her mind off it she looked over her wings, sleek and finely crafted, the steel tip-hooks honed to a razor edge. Today I am a falcon.
They came at last to the aftwall, and she slung her wings and grabbed the first rungs of the dangling ladder, climbing with a sure, steady rhythm. The admonisher was waiting on the upper ledge, and he helped her up as she came over the top. Her opponent was already standing on the edge, ready to leap and looking impatient, but she took her time extending her wings and locking them, checking them. They fit her so well they became a part of her when they were on. Or at least that's how it feels. They were heavier than usual today, with twenty kilos of clay in a sleeve along the mainspine, her secret weapon. When she was ready she moved to the edge herself.
The admonisher put on his own wings, colored red so they couldn't be confused in the duel, and stepped to the edge. "Are you ready?" he asked. She nodded, her opponent nodded. "Jump!" he shouted.
All three launched themselves into space, and she dove, caught air, soared up, stabilized, and let the updraft carry her higher. The extra weight made the pull out deeper, her speed higher, and the extra momentum carried her farther than she was used to. She looked to see if her opponent had noticed, but she couldn't tell. She wobbled, just in case, to let him think her uncertain and not flying well. She was half his size and so should climb faster, but she didn't because of the extra weight. But he's arrogant, and so he'll be smug and think I fly badly, so he'll be careless. Victory was in the balance between height and speed. More weight meant a slower climb but a faster dive, wider turns but quicker strikes. By carrying ballast she could match him in speed on the down-duel, and then dump it and beat him back up. It was a trick that would only work once. But once should be enough.
They climbed in silence, to the top of the first wind cycle, by then well out over the ocean, and some three hundred meters apart. She had gained a small height advantage despite her ballast and her calculated wobbles. The admonisher pierced the air with his whistle, and a long second later she heard the echo from the forewall. She turned towards her opponent and dived, to meet the obligation that they start at the same height, and to keep the speed her advantage gave her. The whistle pierced the air twice more, and the duel was on.
Advantage to the low wing on the pass. She aimed to pass under her opponent, it was easier to score a hit from below than above, but of course he was doing the same thing. They both dived hard, head on and the wind rush built up in her face as her pulse thrilled in her breast. At the last instant they both swerved away. She tried to catch him with a tip-hook on the way past, but was wide, far too wide. Already she was pulling up, trading dive speed for height, to circle around and come down again. He was doing the same, but already she'd detected a weakness. He'd pulled up too hard, come around too fast, and his aggressiveness had cost him meters of height. He was trying to win in the first passes, but her small advantage was now a little bit larger. She dived, more steeply this time because she had more height. The second pass was a near duplicate of the first, and again he was too aggressive on the pullout and turn, and again she gained height.
She smiled to herself. Time to change strategy. She dived more shallowly this time, and because she had more height was able to pass over him with the same amount of speed. She passed just too high and pulled up to the vertical. Her hope was that he'd take the bait and try for a strike, follow her up, and then run out of speed, tumble backwards and dive away. She would run out of speed too, but higher, and when she tumbled and dived she'd be behind him, chasing him down. If he tried to pull out she'd overtake him and strike at will from above. If he didn't pull out, she'd just chase him into the ocean.
Because she was climbing straight up and away she couldn't know if he'd taken the bait until she tumbled, and when she did he wasn't there. He was arrogant, but not stupid. She dived, recovered, looked around to find him, and there was a sudden rush of wings, a ripping of fabric, and then he was gone again, pulling up and around. The admonisher's whistle blew. Her opponent had scored a point. Heart pounding, the young woman checked her wings. The gash was just above the mainspine and not large, but the long, tight braid she kept her hair in had come uncoiled and was streaming out behind her. The tip hook had caught the band that held it and torn it loose. Another fraction and the tip-hook would have sliced open her scalp. Or my head. The duel was not lethal on purpose—a downed winger was supposed to throw her aircatcher, to billow out and slow the fall to the water below—but deaths were common enough. You could be lethally cut by a tip hook, or knocked unconscious in a collision. You could get tangled in the aircatcher's lines, or it could drag you down after you hit the ocean. There were many ways to die.
Which is the spice. Heart pounding the young woman turned to follow her opponent. It's real now. A distant part of her brain warned her of the danger of arrogance. Her opponent's flaw was also her own. And perhaps you have to be arrogant, to duel like this in the wind. He was climbing again, and she climbed after him. There were no intentional wobbles now, she flew as cleanly as she could. She had the slightest advantage in climb, slowly gaining a meter at a time. He knew that too of course, and so when he was high enough he dived, foreward and antispinward, a long, shallow acceleration that gradually eroded the advantage she'd won. He ended up two hundred meters in front of her, and then pulled up and turned, reversing into her for another head-to-head pass. She dived to get under him, and he let her, but when she flipped her right wing up to catch him with the tip-hook it was her wing fabric that was sliced again. He'd side-slipped and then banked so that when she made her move his hook was already there. The admonisher's whistle blew again, and she felt anger flush her face. He will not win! Still, he'd gained an advantage. Her sliced wing fluttered, and she had to pull opposite slots to compensate, which slowed her down. He had a speed advantage and a climb advantage now, not large ones, but one more mistake could bring her down. She pulled up and turned, glancing down as she did. They'd lost half the height they'd started the duel with. If she was going to win she'd have to do it quickly.
Time for the secret weapon. She yanked the cord that released the knots holding her ballast bag, and it tumbled away. He was definitely faster now, but she had an advantage back in at least one domain, and she pulled up, shooting towards the suntube. He had turned for another pass, started his dive, and so he had to switch to a climb to follow her. He must have expected to beat her, but he started to fall behind. She watched for the moment that he realized it, pushing forward out of his climb back into a dive, and at that moment she dropped a wing and stooped, slots closed, the wind-rush hard in her face. The torn fabric in her right wing flapped, vibrated, drummed, and then it ripped all the way back to the trailing edge. She ignored it, totally focused on her prey.
He could out-dive her, but for a short time her height advantage could be turned into a speed advantage, and because he had to pass under her she had less distance to cover. She overtook him, forcing him to steepen his dive, following when he did, and the wind howled through the tears in her wings. Still she overtook him, dipped the left wing, snagged his fabric with the tip-hook, and pulled slots on both sides. The sudden deceleration ripped the hook through the length of the wing surface, and then caught on the bamboo backspine on the trailing edge. There was a tremendous wrench and then they were both falling, tied together at that point. The world gyrated crazily, and she saw him frantically yanking on his lines, trying to free himself, trying to regain control. The blue of the ocean came up fast. There was nothing she could do but hold full slots. Her mainspine groaned under the strain.
And then he was gone, harness released, aircatcher thrown, drifting down. Defeated! But her victory wouldn't count if she couldn't land it, and his wings were still attached to her tip-hook, dragging her down sideways. She closed the slots to fall faster, then popped the right slots full. She was wrenched violently sideways and something snapped in mainspine, but his wings were still there. One more time. She was already dangerously close to the water. She repeated the maneuver, and again was wrenched sideways. Her left wing came up, slightly, and then something snapped, and her tip-hook was wrenched right off her wingtip. She popped the other line as well, killed her speed and pulled up with a hundred meters to spare. Her pulse pounded in her ears and she found she was shaking. Her right wing was badly torn, the end-joints on the left were broken, and the backspine juddered against the mainspine. But I've won, I've won. Her pull-up took her to a hundred and fifty meters, enough height to catch the updraft again, barely. She rode it up while she recovered herself, and saw her opponent in the distance, coming down in the water. One of the netters was already heading in his direction.
She regained her height, regained her composure, and set herself up for the glide back to shore. She turned, set up the approach, slid it in and managed to make the landing look smooth, right in front of the platforms. The crowd had seen almost nothing of the duel, it was too high, too far away, but they knew the meaning of her damaged wings and they erupted into applause. She saw her mother waiting there, looking proud and relieved. First duel victory. It was hers now forever. She smiled, and bowed to the foredome, which was the tradition and the applause redoubled itself. She had her place as a winger now, a guardian angel of the Builder's secret Heaven. She slid her hand into the fold in her garment, found her father's peregrine claw. The crowd came to get her, to lift her on their shoulders, to celebrate her bravery, but she only had eyes for the foredome's apex, the place she had finally earned.
Oh yes, Father, I'll be there very soon.