The Price of Flight – part fourteen.
The Arms Race.
After my brush with that emissary of Pestilence called Covid-19, let's get back into it now my enthusiasm is back.
In which Olga realises an Arms Race is going on between the two Superpowers.
the unique qualities of Syrittan sheep are described in the Compleat Discworld Atlas.
V0.4 - typos and more wonky bits. Still at it.
The Zlobenian Consulate, The Whistlestop, Syrrit
The Rug Road is possibly the oldest continual trading route on the Discworld and follows the longest possible land route over the length of the world's main landmass. Definitively originating in the markets and souks of Muntab and Ghat, where trading vessels come into port from Sumtri and even more remote places, the Rug Road passes through places like Kazakhstan, Upper and Lower Klatchistan, Ushistan, Betrek, Ur, the Lower Kingdom of Djelibeybi, Syrrit, Laotan, the rimwards extremities of the Klatchian Empire, through the hubwardsmost of the scattered Kingdoms of Howondaland, and then through Hersheba to where the Rug Road meets the sea in the bazaars of Ymitury.
Traders and caravans come and go on the long arduous road. Some once elected to pass from Upper Klatchistan and Kazakhstan into what was then the Rus or Rodinian Empire, which before its collapse into a multiplicity of small warring statelets such as Zlobenia and Borogravia, was the gateway to Überwald and the Central Continent. Once, the wise and strong rule of the Tsars protected this side-branch leading ultimately to Ankh-Morpork. Today, trade to Ankh-Morpork is largely by sea and the Hubwards Rug Road is a historical memory.
Similarly, there are those who will pass Rimwards from the Rug Road and take their chances on the Great Nef Desert, which begins in Elharib.
The Rug Road persists. Marriages are concluded on this trade route. Those who terminally drop off the trail are buried. Children are born, grow, and are educated in the Travelling Schools that follow this road, as do a host of service industries. By unspoken convention, everything stops, once or twice a year, in the entwined normally nomadic nations of Syrrit and Laotan in the heart of the Klatchian continent. When every caravan, wagon, yurt, tent, horse, camel, sheep, goat, draught oxen, Travelling School and Nomadic Accountant have chosen to stop and congregate, there you find the temporary city known as The Whistlestop.
And as with cities everywhere, foreign states with an interest have their diplomatic legations.
Bekki and Vasilisa had been preoccupied by other things that were going on and had only really seen what was underneath them as, well, background. They had noted a vast sprawl of wagons, carts and tents, and Bekki had noted there was the sort of smell to the air that could be accounted for by the presence of thousands of draught animals and a "waste not – want not" approach as to what could then be used to light a fire. Once it had dried out.
But Semyon the passenger had guided them to the right place, pointing to the prominent Zlobenian flags attached to the roofs of several caravans. Bekki had gathered that this was the diplomatic quarter. She scanned the skies and noted most of their erstwhile attackers had fled and no more than two were now circling overhead at a safe distance, watching them. Bekki shrugged, and set about the landing checks, progressively shutting down systems and active magic as needed. The carpet had settled with a soft thud. Possibly on top of at least one of the reasons for the smell, but there was such a thing as carpet shampoo.
Now they were waiting for the material to be gathered for the return trip. Whoever had packed the mail pouches for the trip out had seen fit to include several recent editions of the Ankh-Morpork Times There were circulating and small knots of diplomats from many nations, invited by the Zlobenians, were in intent clusters around each available copy, occasionally discussing fine points, and now and again appointing a delegate to respectfully ask questions of the Pegasus pilots. One that cropped up is "What sort of response is Lord Vetinari likely to make? Has he given you any briefing?"
Bekki saw "worried men looking for clues" and tried to answer as honestly as she could.
"Maybe you are the response." the Zlobenian Consul said. Oleg Berendov was a big broad man, a Cossack who was here because he loved the nomadic life. And as he remarked, one end of his diplomatic beat was in Kazakhstan, and as you speak a little Rodinian, Miss Smith-Rhodes, stop to consider the derivation of that name. When I choose to stop travelling, there is where I will be. Among my people, and Prince Heinrich can then consider my services to him are discharged.
The girls noted the Zlobenian mission had its retinue of Cossacks, tough fighting horsemen who served the mission, which also traded in furs, skins, leatherwork and boots. This was not unique. The Ankh-Morporkian consul made goatskin coats and clothing. Everybody made, bought, sold and traded on the rug Road. Apart from a nucleus of professional full-time diplomats, Consulling was a sideline.
"We're going to be overdue back." Vasilisa said to Bekki. "Any luck with that omnicon?"
"Totally dead." Bekki replied. "I'm no expert, but there's nothing there where the imp should be. Without a screwdriver I can't see too far and frankly I don't want to fiddle with it, but there's a sort of slightly greasy soot inside. Something's burnt out. Same on both."
"Or it has been burnt out." Vasilisa replied. "Well, if we are seriously overdue, they will send search mission for us. Who will then run into those Klatchians."
"No way of communicating." Bekki said. "Nothing we can do."
"Nichevo." Vasilisa said. She then smiled graciously at a group of Cossacks, who were inclined to be both respectful to one who was clearly a ved'ma, and almost black-slappingly admiring to a Cossack sister who had just done some amazing horse-riding, albeit on the sort of horse they'd hardly ever seen before. (1) It had also not been lost on them that Vasilisa was, by anyone's standards, very attractive. Bekki, remembering the advice of her mother and aunt, was happy to be the disregarded redhead on the sidelines, albeit one who the Cossacks had seen to be capable with defensive fireballs. The possibility of fireballs if displeased had opened a clearer, longer, space around her, in fact.
Elsewhere, Wee Archie was in the middle of a circle of seriously curious children, enjoying the attention and telling them Feegle stories when language ran onto its limits. Somehow, he was getting the tales over with expressive gestures and body language. Bekki had told him not to expand their vocabularies too much, please, Archie.
She sat on the step of a caravan and waited, and watched. A wider crowd was gathering outside the unspoken and implicit diplomatic perimeter. Bekki gathered that there were a lot of anxious and worried people out there and remembered to add this to her report.
Then the reason for the anxiety and worry became apparent: she frowned as a patrol of Klatchian soldiers roughly forced their way through the crowd. Heading their way. Bekki called "Vasilisa!"
The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork
Commander Sam Vimes eyeballed Lieutenant Irena Politek. She put on her best impassive face, and waited for him to open a dialogue.
Vimes, who was fighting an urge to blink and let his eyes water, took a deep breath.
"Irena. I was on my way up here to ask about a little whisper I heard that some sort of trouble is happening. On the way up, I could not help but notice that certain things have been brought out of the special hangar which is normally kept locked and guarded. Things, over which I believe I once gave a very explicit order, to the effect that they should not be brought out for routine everyday police work, and should be retained for extra-policing activities. I am referring to those bloody lethal flying multiple onne-shotte crossbows with a pilot's seat on."
"Da. The MIG-Twenty-Ones." Irena said.
Vimes glared at her. She affected not to notice.
"Which the Tekniks are now fuelling with magic. And ammunition. When I asked who had authorised this, they directed me to you. Well, they said "Red Star told us to, Commissar Vimes." But you get the picture. As you are Red Star, would you care to explain?"
"We have a Code Eighty-Seven, Mr Vimes." Irena said, simply. Vimes digested this, making the right mental cross-references. Then he got it.
"Pegasus down?" he asked. Irena nodded.
"Shot down?" he asked. She nodded, more emphatically.
Vimes geared all the way down from confrontational to concerned.
"Who was flying it?" he asked, quietly.
"Sneguroschka. That is, Officer Budonova."
"Irena. I'm so…"
"She was not alone, Mr Vimes. Her Pegasus, Stravinsky, was also towing cargo. To Syrrit. On a flight requested by Lord Vetinari. As a precaution, she was allocated an aircrew member to fly with the towed carpet. Firebird was despatched."
Irena went quiet and unreadable. Several appalling and uncomfortable realisations happened in the mind of Sam Vimes. Firebird was Rebecka Smith-Rhodes. Who was Irena's godsdaughter and her former pupil in Witchcraft. And her mother was…
"Navigator Wee Archie Aff The Midden is also missing." Irena said, quietly.
Vimes looked around the Control Room. Several angry and hurt looking flight Feegle had clustered here, as well as some worried and upset looking Air Witches.
"We believe Klatchians were responsible. The evidence is fragmentary, but in my mind conclusive. This is why I wish the rescue mission to be a show of force. We do not know if Vasilisa and Rebecka and Wee Archie have been forced down, were shot down, are free, or are prisoners. I wish to find out. And I want the best pilots and the best battle brooms, commander. The rescue flight will be escorted. Hence the MIG's."
Vimes heard the unmistakeable hoofbeats, from somewhere nearby, but above, that signalled a Pegasus coming in to land. Irena smiled.
"That is Olga. She said she would be on her way back from the Palace. We need to bring each other up to date, and the rescue flight requires her approval…"
"Lieutenant Politek?" The voice came from behind her. "I would counsel you to delay a rescue mission, at least for a little while. There are matters to discuss. Captain Romanoff has kindly allowed me to attend here."
Irena winced. Sunray himself. But how the Hells had he got in here unannounced?
"This way, gentlemen…" Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom was showing other people in. Vimes assessed. Clive Mountjoy-Standish was okay, in Vimes' mind. The first man ever to get the rank of Field-Marshal who was a plain "mister", and not even a "sir". Also, a capable officer. Vimes approved of things like this. General Wrangle, also a "mister" , was in Vimes' opinion the really clever one. He considered it a rare and welcome thing that Ankh-Morpork now appeared to have competent military commanders who appeared to know what they were doing. Admiral Harrap, the Navy commander, was in comparison the sort of bluff hearty fifteen-a-side type who appeared to confuse being actively energetic with being efficient. Vimes supposed he had capable subordinates who offered good advice. Shame, really: Vimes had met all three quite a long time ago as young or youngish men, barely out of officer school.(2) They'd been bright lads, he had thought at the time. And now we're all growing older together…
Olga and Irena were explaining how the Control Room worked and were showing them the Omnicon Control desk. Messages were coming in, in the bewildering argot the Air Watch used.
-Death of Broomsticks to Mother Hen Control. Nothing I can put my finger on, but the same rug that was in the sky half an hour ago is still there. Just… going round in a big circle round the City. Over.
"Matkuritsa Control to Death of Broomsticks. Are you sure it is exact same one? Over .
-Death of Broomsticks to Mother Hen Control. Affirmative. Same pattern, same colour, same three Klatchians, I recognise the clothes. They seemeem tooo beee fiddlinging withith somume sortrt offff machineryery. Overver
"Matkuritsa Control to Death of Broomsticks. Say again, Death of Broomsticks. Is strange echo on comm. Maybe you should come in, exchange Omnicon for spare. Over."
"Ask for her current location, if you would, Sergeant Popova?" Vetinari requested, mildly.
"Matkuritsa Control to Death of Broomsticks. Report current position and bearing, Death of Broomsticks. Over."
-Death of Broomsticks to Mother Hen Control. At Hide Park on bearing three-five-five, parallel to Nonesuch Street. And whatever that weird echo was, it seems to have gone now. Maybe the system glitched or something. Over."
"Interesting." Vetinari said, mildly. He did not elaborate.
"I must say, you ladies answer to some very strange names!" Admiral Harrap exclaimed, clearly amused.
"We each have our callsign for comms purposes." Olga said, feeling sidetracked. "These are necessarily shorter than our given names and therefore make communications simpler and to the point. Syren, for instance, is simpler than Captain Olga Anastacia Ekatyarinavichnya de Kokamaijne-Romanoff, which is my full name. Sergeant Nadezhda Serafinavichnya Popova is Matkuritsa, which in Morporkian is "Mother Hen". Lieutenant Politek is Krasnya Zvezda in Rodinian, Red Star in Morporkian."
"And who is "Death of Broomsticks?" General Wrangle asked. Olga supressed a wince. This was one of the difficult ones.
"She is Air Policewoman Matilda Glossop." Olga admitted. "The name was conferred affectionately after the fighting over Lancre, where for every El…enemy… she destroyed in the sky, she then contrived to crash her own broomstick on landing. This persisted for a while after she joined the Air Police. It got expensive, in terms of broomsticks written off. The name was conferred affectionately."
"Ah. Not good at landing, then."
"But she walks away with bruises and very minor injuries. A good landing is one you can walk away from." Olga said. She changed the subject.
"Gentlemen, Syrrit. I have lost pilots."
"Indeed." Vetinari replied. "I asked for a mission to go out. It has not returned. May we review the evidence that this was not accident?"
Olga looked over to Nadezhda, who shook her head slightly.
" For now we can provide transcripts and witness statements. Playback of the day's logs is possible, but this is preserved elsewhere."
Olga paused, aware of the implications.
"I will clacks Professor Stibbons, who had most to do with devising the Omnicons. He will be able to access the University's thinking engine that archives our daily traffic."
"I wonder what callsign young Stibbons might use." the Admiral mused. "Don't suppose he's on this Omnicon thing, is he?"
"That might be a good idea, sir." Olga replied. "Worth raising with him and something none of us thought of at the time."
Of course our technical advisor who developed the system should be linked in, Olga thought. And a direct line to HEX would be useful, too. And fast retrieval of archived information. Well, we learn all the time.
She returned to the Admiral. "Professor Stibbons' wife did suggest cuculus coccyx horologiorum Überwaldiensis, possibly shortened to Coccyx or Cuculus."
Olga supressed a horrible thought of another painful conversation she may yet need to have, and relished the sight of the faces around her, who were painfully trying to untangle the Latatian.
Vetinari, who had quickly conferred with Vimes, who had scribbled a message and sent it off via a Watchman, smiled slightly.
"Which would maintain the prevalent avian theme in Air Watch call-signs, and typical of the sense of humour of the service." he observed.
"Cuckoo from Überwald which assembles clocks…" Vimes said, slowly.
"The cuckoo will land in this nest shortly." Vetinari said. " I requested no great rush, and advised him of our whereabouts. I have your permission to host other City Council members here, Captain Romanoff, Sir Samuel? Capital."
"The rescue mission?" Irena Politek said, her voice radiating urgency and impatience.
"Describe your plan, Red Star." Olga said. Vetinari and the others looked on, attentively.
"I want to use six brooms." Irena said. "Our best brooms. Our best pilots. Hanna's crazy to lead the mission. She despatched them both. She feels responsible. I also want two of the two-seaters in there to collect, with the fighters to escort and keep the Klatchians at arm's length. I need eight pilots and eight Feegle, Olga. We get in there, we search, we collect, the Feegle crawstep us in and out."
"Using your latest and newest fighter designs." Vetinari observed. "If the Klatchians have indeed fired the first shots, Lieutenant Politek, this could well escalate into war if we are seen to retaliate."
Irena's face spoke if not volumes but a short sentence: it read "I do not give govno if I start a war. Two of my people are stranded out there, maybe alive, maybe dead, maybe wounded. I will retrieve them."
"I want my people back." Olga said, supporting her. "But I am open to considering other ways of doing this. What if, for instance, the Klatchians have deliberately set a trap and are waiting for us, in some numbers, over Syrrit? We may lose other people and achieve nothing. On a battleground of their choosing upon which they have had time to prepare. I'm not refusing you permission, Irena, but let us consider alternatives."
Vimes stood back a little. He was wondering. The comms report that said they were under attack by lots of Klatchians was definite enough. What if all they can find to recover are two bodies and a dead Pegasus?
His face hardened.
And if two, no, three, of my Watchmen are dead, and they were Watchmen even if they were riding errands for Vetinari and even though one is a bloody Feegle, I swear I will find who did it and there will be justice. I will do this even if by some miracle they fly back alive to the Air Station and ask for a cup of tea with lots of sugar. Because it is still attempted murder.
A picture of his professional contact, Seventy-One Hours Ahmed, rose in his mind. Vimes considered this. Ahmed had helped prevent all-out war with Klatch last time. Not because he wasn't at some level a patriotic Klatchian. But because he knew piling up the bodies on a battlefield would be one enormous crime. Because he thought like Vimes about the nature of Law and Justice. Vimes stored the thought for further consideration. He heard that an alternative to Hanna von Strafenburg leading a wing to Syrrit, and turning the Klatchian Air Force to blazing scrap and shattered ruin, involved stealth insertion of bloody Assassins who would then discreetly undertake a ground search. Alarmed, Vimes turned to make the point that he was damned if the bloody Assassins were to be asked to help out the City Watch.
And the debate continued.
The Zlobenian Consulate, The Whistlestop, Syrrit
A patrol of Klatchian soldiers pushed roughly through the civilian crowd. Bekki counted eight of them, sword or spear-armed and dressed in mail and armour underneath flowing surcoats. They looked like hardened regular soldiers. Bekki had been taught by the City Watch, and by her mother, about assessing threat. She'd picked up more useful skills on the fly from Aunt Mariella and people like Aunt Mariella's lifelong friend Rivka ben-Divorah. Rivka had said if they've got projectile weapons and you don't and there are more than two arrows pointing at you, retreat or negotiate, don't fight.
There were no bows or crossbows.
Vasilisa nodded to the Cossacks who guarded the Consulate. Their big hetman, or perhaps a sotnik, nodded back and bowed the sort of bow a Cossack warrior makes to his ved'ma. Bekki realised there was something she could do here to even the odds. She whistled in a particular way, as the Klatchian officer strode forwards.
"Ladies, you are to come with us. You are now under the protection of the Klatchian government." he said, a hand on his sword hilt. His attitude said he was not anticipating refusal.
"The wingèd horse, of course, is now under the care of the Klatchian armed forces ,and it will come with us."
"Nyet." Vasilisa said, folding her arms.
The Klatchian officer looked down contemptuously at the drone carpet, which Bekki and Vasilisa had roughly folded rather than rolled.
"That piece of shoddy junk, however, Ankh-Morpork is welcome to. Inferior manufacture, and held together by cheap spells devised by fat men in dresses at Unseen University."
He spat on the carpet.
"You are required to come with me, ladies. You will be treated well in our custody."
"Actually." Semyon Romanoff said, stepping forward. "The ladies do not require Klatchian protection. The reason for that is that they are currently under the protection of the Principality of Zlobenia."
"And who are you, exactly?" the Klatchian officer demanded, contemptuously.
"Count Semyon Casimirovitch Romanoff." Semyon said. "Now an accredited diplomatic representative from Zlobenia to Syrrit. And cousin to a woman who would drop me slowly into an acid bath, feet first, if I stood back and let these young ladies be taken prisoner."
The Klatchian officer spat again.
"And believe me," Semyon said, "Lady Olga Romanoff is a woman who expresses her feelings with some force and vigour. Cross her at your peril. Being dropped into a vat of acid feet first would be preferable."
"And more to the point, Captain." Oleg Berendov said, stepping forward. Despite the muggy heat he was now fully dressed as a Cossack, in the big coat and the furry hat. He looked imposing and frightening, even without the sabre at his hip.
"There is an accepted international convention that the soil on which an Embassy or Consulate stands is inviolable, part of that nation's sacred soil. This caravan is Zlobenian. That caravan over there is Zlobenian. You have trespassed on the land in between them. Which is Zlobenian soil by default."
He nodded to the Cossacks, whose body language said they would be delighted to press the point. And the edge.
"If you do not think Zlobenians will not fight to defend their land, you were clearly absent from history lessons at school." Berendov said, eyeballing the Klatchian. "And a third thing to consider." He nodded to Vasilisa.
"This young lady may work for Ankh-Morpork. But her place of residence is Krapovits Oblast, in the Grand Duchy of the Border Marches. Which is in Zlobenia. Miss Natasha Vasilisa Danutavichnya Budonova is therefore Zlobenian. A subject. You have no claim to her. Now are you prepared to depart peaceably, you and your men?"
"There is the other girl." The Klatchian said. "She is not Zlobenian." He looked across to Bekki, and suddenly became very inscrutable indeed.
Rebecka Smith-Rhodes was making no attempt to go for her own sidearms. Her sword remained scabbarded and her pistol crossbows were still holstered. But to each side of her was a slavering, enormous, hell-hound from the nethermost pits of Shaitan. Vladimir and Boris, sensing threat to the girl who had befriended them, were emitting the sort of low continual growling that clearly said they didn't care the men they were growling at carried spears and swords. And these jaws can bite through metal, matey, so don't think that armour is going to be much use.
However well armoured and armed a man is, there is something about a vey large attack dog snarling at him, such as a Doberman, Lipschnitzer, a Smith-Rhodesian Ridgeback, or in this case a Rodinian Borzoi, to make him reconsider his actions. The Klatchian soldiery, faced by Cossacks on one side and Rodinian Borzoi bearhounds on the other, were suddenly not happy.
"Ectually," another voice said, adding to the woes of the soldiery, "Miss Smith-Rhodes, because her mother is from Piemburg in the Transvaal, and because her permanent place of residence is Bitterfontein in the Turnwise Caarp, counts es a citizen of the Confederated Republics of Rimwards Howondaland."
This speaker wore the khaki and bush-hat of the Boer people. He nodded pleasantly to Bekki.
"Ons kan later praat, meisie Smith-Rhodes. En moenie verbaas wees om 'n Boer hier te sien nie. jy moet weet, meisie. Boer. Trek. Dit is die langste Trek ter wêreld!"
He turned to the Klatchian again, with the affable pugnaciousness and emphatic body language Bekki saw every day in her mother's people.
"To get to the point. Here I em the Consul. Miss Smith-Rhodes is one of ours. Jislaak, I'd be surprised if enyone called Smith-Rhodes needs protection, but she's one of ours. So I wish you goodbye. Gaan voetsaak, jou bliksem."
The Klatchian officer glowered.
But he was becoming aware that behind him, his increasingly nervous troops, the ones who could follow and speak Morporkian, were muttering among themselves. One, a sergeant, nervously raised a hand and looked at Bekki.
"Errr… your name, esteemed lady, is Miss Smith-Rhodes?"
Bekki nodded. She thought a nice smile in these circumstances would not be wasted. She saw the soldiers go into a huddle.
-Red hair. Sword. Called Smith-Rhodes….
-Yeah, one of them come round this way a few years ago…
"I will return." the Klatchian officer said, and marched away, keeping a precarious dignity. His men followed, gratefully.
Bekki turned to Vasilisa.
"We need to make a plan. For getting out." she said. Both girls looked up. Some of the seemingly absurd flying sheep had returned. They were patrolling. Looking down. Watching. Guarding their escape route.
"Have you noticed." a pleasant male voice said in Vondalaans, close to her ear, "that the people here are looking up at those sheep, and getting angry about it? We should talk, meisie Smith-Rhodes. About how this situation came to be."
Elsewhere, one of the Cossacks, who had appointed themselves as Vasilisa's personal escort, drew her attention to several of the civilians on the fringes of the crowd. Vasilisa read the unspoken pleading in their eyes and attitude. We have a problem. We need a Witch. Please help us.
She nodded. Being a pilot for the Watch and the Service was something she loved. But she was still a witch. The price of her flight was never to forget she was a witch, to do the everyday Witching jobs as well, without complaining or shirking.
"Tell them I will do my best to help." she said.
Getting far too long again. To be continued.
The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork
"Matkuritsa Control to all stations Flying Pig. Attention. Control will be closing immediately for…essential maintenance. Repeat, Control going offline. You may speak to each other directly on IC. Do not clutter airwaves with empty chatter. Stand by for further information. The following pilots are recalled to Air Station immediately…"
More and more people had arrived at the Air Station for the emergency conference. Sam Vimes saw the Assassin chief, Lord Downey, was among them, and his teeth gritted.
"Who the Hells let Venturi and Selachii in?" he demanded.
Captain Carrot pulled a face.
"Lord Vetinari's instructions, sir." he said. Carrot hesitated.
"Out with it, Carrot." Vimes invited him.
"Errr… Miss Cripslock is downstairs, sir. With other writers-of-news. And iconographers. She's heard that we lost a Pegasus and crew over Syrrit, goodness knows how, and she's pressing for a statement."
"How the Hells do they find out, Carrot?" Vimes demanded.
"Don't know, sir. The Times is planning to go to print anyway on what it knows, and she says it's helpful if we get a chance to put our side of the story. As she does. And…" Carrot hesitated again. "Mr Littlehampton from the Inquirer is here. He's already shouting about how he intends to word his story. And how we should go all out for vengeance and we should really hit those insolent murdering Klatchians where it hurts."
"Mr Dick Littledick. Can we book him and throw him in a cell for anything? Incitement to violence against our own Klatchians?"
"Mr Richard Littlehampton, sir.(3) And it wouldn't look good, sir."
A thought struck Vimes. "Carrot. There are five Klatchians in the Air Watch. The carpet boys. We know two of them - at least – are plants working for their Embassy. Do you think…"
"Can't rule it out, sir. The two of them on duty today. Olga's put them on essential work in the stores and the hangars. They're out of the loop for anything being said here. She isn't going to send them all on gardening leave unless there's no other choice, and the ones we know are spies, well, she and Irena make sure they get access to, shall we say, low-level things, and misleading information, to pass on. She makes sure she knows what they're going to tell. We all know the game."
Vimes grunted. Then he looked at one of a new group of arrivals. He took a deep breath. At this moment, he felt a deep and profound sympathy for Olga Romanoff and Hanna von Strafenburg. They now had to do what could be the worst official duty of all.
"Excuse me, sir. This is important." Olga said to Lord Vetinari. Vetinari looked briefly at Professor Ponder Stibbons, who had just arrived from the university.
"Do what must be done, Captain Romanoff." Vetinari said.
"Sir? I intend to. This takes precedence."
She walked over to Ponder and took him by the arm.
"Professor Stibbons? I really need a quiet private word with you. Sergeant von Strafenburg has also requested to be present."
Olga led him by the arm and firmly closed a door behind them. Everybody inside the Control Room pretended they hadn't noticed, and tried to carry on talking. Irena Politek tried to continue giving a visiting dignitary an explanation of how the plotting system worked on the maps.
But she kept glancing at the side door.
And Olga and Hanna returned, looking sombre. Eyewitnesses said, later, that Professor Ponder Stibbons looked exactly like you'd expect a man to look, after being informed his Air Watch pilot daughter was missing, presumed shot down in combat.
People tried not to catch his eye.
The same eyewitnesses would also have said Ponder then gathered himself and threw himself into his work. Completely, as if burying an awful reality. And things began to move.
"Connection established to HEX mainframe." He said. "Captain Romanoff, you need to know this now gives HEX a direct voice on the Omnicon system. Previously his involvement was passive, opening the wavelengths to you for your use and collecting your daily comms logs for long-term storage, retrieval and print-out where necessary. At the time, we agreed minimal HEX involvement was necessary. But now you want a solution fast."
Ponder gathered himself.
"I want a resolution fast." he said, in a low voice. Olga took his arm again.
Ponder pulled himself together.
"HEX? Please answer."
++I am now present, Professor Stibbons.++Captain Romanoff? ++What are your instructions?++
"HEX." aAnd she thought, quickly. "Welcome to the Air Watch, by the way. I wish you to replay all stored communications relating to today's unscheduled flight to Syrrit. In chronological order, with times."
++I hear you, Captain Romanoff.++
Ponder made himself breathe deeply and regularly, wondering if this would be the last time he would ever hear his daughter's voice. Olga inobtrusively took his hand and squeezed it.
He visibly winced at the last, broken, communications from distant Syrrit, the ones that suggested his daughter had been killed in action.
There was a susurration of muted rage from the Feegle, who had lost one of their own, and angry sobs from those Air Watch girls who had crowded into the control Room to listen.
He took a deep breath.
"HEX? Is there any way to refine those transmissions, to take out the noise, to make them clearer?"
++Computing, Professor Stibbons.++ The aircrew in Klatch also attempted to transmit pictures of the air users who were attacking them.++ visuals consume more transmission power than audio, but I will also endeavour to retrieve and clean up the pictures.++Stand by++
The screen on the Control Panel was relatively small, but HEX retrieved first the earlier pictures, of Bekki and Vasilisa in the yard of the Zlobenian Embassy, demonstrating how much luggage they had to stow. Ponder struggled with the sensation this might be the very last picture of his oldest daughter ever to be taken.
Visuals taken by other pilots in the course of the day followed. HEX, in his dispassionate voice, explained this was necessary so as to calibrate his systems and get an idea of the work necessary to clean and reconstruct the long-distance transmission.
And finally, the picture from Syrrit emerged, grainy, in bleached out colours, but with enough detail for a few seconds worth of information…
"I don't believe it."
"THAT's what attacked them?"
"But those are definitely Klatchians on the back. No mistake."
"Slava bogu."
Ponder blinked back a tear. Ridiculous or not, they were definitely flying. There were a lot of them. And all the Klatchian pilots were armed.
The short moving picture sequence only lasted five or ten seconds, but it definitively showed flying sheep. Rams. With pilots. The beating of a Pegasus wing was visible. Approaching at speed and getting nearer. With a glimpse of a Klatchian flying carpet in the background. Then the screen showed an instant of static, an eruption of chaotic lightning flashes, and then nothing.
Vetinari looked up, gravely.
"There is no doubt, then. Deliberate hostile action by the Klatchian Air Force, on a new fighting platform."
"That's that, then." Lord Venturi grated. "When the lights went out, that must have been where that poor gel got killed."
People around him tried to shush him.
"Still, she died a hero's death, and all that. Defendin' her country."
Ponder Stibbons was glaring at Lord Venturi.
"And why's that wizard lookin' at me like that…"
Lord Venturi quite possibly did not realise how lucky he was. Just as Ponder Stibbons was about to leap at him and do something which in normal circumstances would be well out of character, HEX spoke again as Irena Politek and Lord Downey, both realising there could be a regrettable situation happeneing, moved in to intervene if it were needed.
++The breakup of the image does not necessarily mean the woman taking the pictures was killed.++From the relative position to the wing of the Pegasus, I deduce this was Officer Budonova++ besides, the Omnicon on which these images were taken appears to be the one issued to her++ I am comparing thaumic signatures++
HEX went silent for a moment.
++It appears the Omnicon issued to Officer Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, and for the advice of Lord Venturi I will emphasise her full name. failed in exactly the same instant.++In normal circumstances, the chances of two Omnicons catastrophically failing at the same instant are so low as to be improbable. ++What I am inferring from the nature of the damage is that a massive systems overload brought about catastrophic failure in the local Omnicon system++I will need to do further work to be certain.++I infer an external agency deliberately interfered with the system to the point where it became unusable.++
Hex paused again.
++Captain Romanoff, somebody is trying to render your communication systems unusable++You are being jammed++
In and around the Whistlestop, Syrrit
While Rebecka Smith-Rhodes was being briefed on certain aspects of life in Syrrit and along the Rug Road by a locally based Boer, Vasilisa and her Cossack escort were clandestinely leaving the diplomatic compound. The crowd opened for them and surged closed after their passing, making it difficult for Klatchian soldiers to pursue. Eventually Vasilisa was led to a makeshift hut, which radiated a smell familiar from her time in the Chalk.
"You have an animal in trouble, da?" she asked.
A child belonging to the shepherding family, one who was learning Morporkian in one of the travelling Schools, interpreted. The Syrritan shepherd nodded an emphatic "yes".
Vasilisa ran everything she knew concerning the ailments of sheep through her mind. As her Cossack escort spread out to guard the hut, she was led inside. And discovered her guess at "sick sheep" could not have been more wrong.
The patient turned out to be an attractively shaped dog with a long black and white coat, and she was very pregnant indeed. She focused herself. Something was stopping her birthing puppies…
"First time mother? First litter?" she asked. The child nodded an emphatic yes. Her eyes were tearing with anxiety. Vasilisa smiled and took her hand.
"I know the problem here. Let us solve this together, da? I show you what to do."
After a while it was straightforward. Vasilisa called the shepherd over.
"Mother. Eight teats. Puppies, nine. One will struggle. Keep an eye on them. I may come back. To check."
The daughter communicated this to her father. He kissed Vasilisa's hand and expressed a gabbling stream of thanks. She smiled.
"Remember. I come back. Check." she said.
"Father is pleased." the shepherd-girl said. "So many puppies in one birth is wealth."
"Then tell him to take care of all nine." Vasilisa said. She stayed for a while and asked the shepherd and his family a few questions about their life in Syrrit. They were happy to give answers.
She summoned her Cossack guard and they returned to the camp.
"Where have you been?" Bekki asked.
"Witch work. Birthing a dog."
Bekki accepted this.
"This is Mr van der Miesener. He's been telling me about how things are round here. I'm now remembering things Aunt Mariella said about when she visited here. We need to set off back, SnowMaiden. We've got to get all this back to Ankh-Morpork."
They looked up. Lots of the flying sheep, and more than one flying carpet, were circling.
"Let's make that plan." Bekki said.
They made a discreet final call for mail and briefings for Ankh-Morpork. A dark clad figure approached Bekki.
"Sebastian Bakewell. Dark Clerk. At the Consulate here." he said. "Miss Smith-Rhodes, I'm assuming your mother is.."
"She's that Doctor Smith-Rhodes. Yes." Bekki said. "Which makes me an Associate Guild Member."
"Your mother taught me." the Dark Clerk said. "And before you ask, I was nearby when those soldiers tried to take you prisoner. I was prepared to intervene if necessary. You just wouldn't have seen me."
"Don't doubt it." Bekki said.
Sebastian Bakewell smiled. He discreetly passed Bekki a sealed letter.
"For the Dark Council. Can you deliver? Directly?"
"Okay." Bekki said. She sought to remember his name and face. Dark Clerks were selected to be forgettable. It was a career advantage. She tucked the mailing for Lord Downey into her tunic, for now.
Saying goodbye to Vladimir and Boris was a wrench. Bekki vowed to return to see them again. The uncomfortable thought rising in her head was that the family dogs were getting older; Rooibuis and Klipdrift were both over ten and dogs didn't last for ever. They would be the second set of family dogs she had outlived. Everybody in the household knew the moment of goodbye might come soon, as it had with Kaffee and Crème before them. Bekki decided to raise the issue, sensitively, with Mum and her two sisters. She would suggest Borzois this time, when the time for new dogs came. Getting two dogs on her side worked both ways for a witch: Bekki had developed, quickly, a strong affection for them, and she wanted to know more about the breed. She took care to Borrow quickly and to make a suggestion they didn't miss her too badly, why not say hello to the nice human over there called Semyon?
Elsewhere, Vasilisa was talking to the Zlobenian diplomat they were to take back to Ankh-Morpork. She explained that as they would be taking off and almost instantly meeting opposition, there could be fighting, it was up to him if he wanted to come.
"Luggage. There are two panniers on Stravinsky. If it does not fit into pannier, it does not travel. No argument. Also. Here is brown paper bag. Use it. There will be some flying of the sort that makes passenger wish to use brown paper bag. We take off. Ten minutes. Be ready."
They had decided to abandon the carpet and towing cable. It could be retrieved by a later flight. Bekki's broomstick, which had travelled among Semyon's luggage, was retrieved and she performed the necessary pre-flight checks. Wee Archie was warned he was NOT to go leaping off Stravinsky to take any fighting to the Klatchians. If he was not there at the right time to crawstep them, there would be trouble.
And the Cossacks were singing. Vasilisa beckoned Bekki over.
"You are invited. This important."
Путь далёк у нас с тобою,
Веселей, солдат, гляди!
Вьётся, вьётся знамя полковое,
Командиры впереди.
The song started slow and it built up. Bekki tried to make sense of the lyrics. Long way to go… banners proudly flying…
Soldaty, v put', v put', v put'!
A dlya tebya, rodnaya,
Est' pochta polevaya.
Proshchaiy! truba zovyot,
Soldaty - v pokhod!
An older Cossack woman came forward with an ornate tray. Vasilisa thanked her. She turned to Bekki.
"Take the bread. Dip it into salt. Then eat bread. This sustains body of warrior. Then drink the vodka. It is served sto gram,(4) in the Rodinian manner. Drink it in one. Return glass to tray. This sustains warrior soul before battle."
Пусть враги запомнят это:
Не грозим, а говорим.
Мы прошли с тобой полсвета.
Если надо - повторим.
Bekki held some of the bread in her mouth, hoping this would soak up some of the vodka, and tried not to shudder or gag or cough as she swallowed.
Pust' vragi zapomnjat eto:
Ne grozim, a govorim.
My proshli s toboj polsveta.
Esli nado - povtorim.
Together we crossed half the world. We will do this again.
Vasilisa slammed the glass down on the tray and shouted
"Ja Kazakh!"
There was a welcoming roar from forty, maybe fifty, members of the extended family clan, men, women and children.
Soldaty, v put', v put', v put'!
A dlya tebya, rodnaya,
Est' pochta polevaya.
Proshchaiy! truba zovyot,
Soldaty - v pokhod! (5)
Vasilisa exchanged quick cheek-kisses with some of the Cossacks, then vaulted into the saddle in front of her passenger. Semyon Romanoff shook hands with both, and offered the departing passenger something. It was the iconograph he had used on the flight out.
"I took perhaps twelve pictures." he said, gravely. These are in the report I wrote for you and you may find it interesting, Vasilisa Danutavichniya. It is interesting they roll out of the front of the machine into a retaining bag, by the way. Useful for flying. You have twelve shots left."
"Do not drop it." Vasilisa said. "There is a carrying strap. Secure this to your wrist. Firebird, I will take off first. You know when to follow."
They clasped hands, and Bekki straddled her broom. She counted exactly to thirty, watching the Pegasus, unencumbered by a towed load, ascend rapidly, waiting for the Klatchians to begin flying with the intention of mobbing it… and then a fast Air Watch pursuit broom was in the air, un-noticed as the Klatchians made the assumption that the two people on the Pegasus were the ones they wanted.
The disregarded third hammered through them like a knife through butter, scattering and confusing the flying sheep, allowing the Pegasus time to ascend, Bekki pushed for maximum airspeed, knowing the flying sheep were nowhere near as fast, looking for one target in particular… and she found him. The Klatchian who had tried to kick her off the carpet to her death drew closer and closer. Her blood rising, she attacked head on at full speed, knowing this sort of playing chicken was crazy flying and if Olga saw it, she'd be on a charge for reckless flying.
Bekki did not care.
And it was the Klatchian who blinked first, trying to turn away. She glimpsed the Pegasus over on her right, not far away.
And then focused on the moment. As the Klatchian swerved to her left, she ascended to the right and up,
And felt the jarring impact as her left foot connected, squarely and heavily, lifting the Klatchian up in his stirrups and then slumping him forward in his saddle.
Bekki grinned.
She threw a single fireball into the air, to ignite and explode nowhere near any Klatchians, just a statement of intent, and then zoomed to where she could – very carefully – make contact with the side traces on Stravinsky's flank. She glimpsed something brown round and soggy flying away over her head.
Devilment caught her, and she applied a simple spell to catch the full brown paper bag and suggest it changed its trajectory, just a little bit this way…
And it exploded, with a soggy thud, in the face of a Klatchian pilot.
"Contact!" she yelled forwards, buffeted by the slipstream of the beating wings, gripping the Pegasus' tack firmly. "Let's go!"
She paused and added
"As the song said – V'Put!"
The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork
The Omnicon was back up and running again after some minor adjustments to allow HEX a non-invasive (most of the time) presence. Routine messages were coming in to Mother Hen Control while the City Council debate continued in the background.
-This is Lancre Punch. Lancre Punch to Mother Hen Control. Visual fix on one Pegasus, two passengers, just appeared in City airspace over Dimwell. Over.
"Lancre Punch is Air Policewoman Rawlinson…" Olga whispered to Vetinari. Then her brain caught up with what she was hearing.
"Matkuritsa Control to Lancre Punch. Can you positively identify? Over."
-Lancre Punch to Mother Hen Control. There is also a broomstick, ME109 standard model….. Mother Hen. Mother Hen! It's Snowmaiden and Firebird! They're back! Repeat, they're back!"
The Control Room erupted in cheers. Olga discreetly grabbed Ponder Stibbons round the waist as he wobbled slightly. She hugged him.
-Lancre Punch to Mother Hen Control. Firebird and SnowMaiden cannot comm as their Omnicons are burnt out. They are ferrying returning diplomat and – what's that, Bekki? Shout again… they have despatches for the attention of Sunray. Estimated return in three minutes. Over.
A little later, Bekki and Vasilisa returned, to whoops, tears, hugs and kisses. They took in the crowded Control Room and we able, with difficulty, to get to the front of the room. At floor level, exultant Feegle rejoiced in the return of one of their own.
One of the returning pilots looked around and sad "Hi, Dad. Be with you in a minute? Thanks."
The other stamped to attention, saluted, and said
"Flight commander Vasilisa Budonova, Aircrew member Rebecka Smith Rhodes and Flight-Navigator Wee Archie Aff the Midden reporting for duty, ma'am!"
Captain Olga Romanoff nodded, her face impassive.
"Several hours late. And where is your flying helmet, Officer Budonova?"
Vasilisa was still wearing her Cossack fur cap.
"Flying helmet is safe in forward pannier. However, report the loss in contact with enemy of one drone carpet and one towing cable, ma'am."
"Noted." Olga said. "Now you may make your report. Not just to me, but also to Stoneface and…"
Olga turned her head and raised an eyebrow. Lord Vetinari smiled slightly.
"You may also give your verbal report to Sunray. I have no objections." he said.
Again, to be continued and tidied..
(1) Actual back-slapping and bear-hugs had not happened, however, as the Cossacks knew not to take liberties with a ved'ma, and respected the personal space of a Witch. The back-slapping and bear-hugs had been taken as read.
(2) See Night Watch by Terry Pratchett.
(3) Real person reference: to the acerbic and deeply unpleasant newspaper columnist Richard Littlejohn (Sun, Daily Mail) who pens some truly bilious and intolerant op-ed pieces for right-wing newspapers.
(4) There HAS to be a place in the Discworld called "Sto Gram". This is a measure of vodka in parts Slavonic. None of those poncy little shot-glasses or one-sixth-of-a-gill pub measures. Where "sto gram" is a measure, it means "fill the bloody glass, do not merely dampen the bottom".
(5) A Red Army marching song still in use by the Russian Army – "V'Put", "Let's go!"
Notes Dump: think of it as a sort of dispersal area for recovered ideas which can be cannibalised for spare parts so as to get new ideas up into the air again.
oh - Mr van Meisener, the Rimwards Howondalandian consul, said to Bekki (rough translation) "Why are you so surprised to see a Boer here? This is the longest Trek in the world. Where there is a Trek, you find a Boer".
And, "Sunray" was, and probably still is, the British Army radio call-sign for the Batallion Commander, the highest rank most soldiers will encounter in the normal run of things and therefore the man who makes the big decisions.