Ariel (35 page)

"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.