The Price of Flight – part twenty-nine
After-echoes
V0.4. Godsdamn, seeing issues already, on a readback... one character (Hanna) contrived to be in two places simultaneously, which even on the Discworld is hard going. Also little niggles and didn't get the RAF rank ladder completely right, thanks to reader Rooksey.
Also.. looked back on older chapters and realised I've committed the deadly sin of not getting my character's name right. Fourecksian pilot Darleen is variably "O'Hagan" and "O'Halloran". so I need to go back and correct... damn..
In which the story resolves itself and there will be a few glimpses and after-echoes of up to a year ahead.
Also having to pay some thought as to where all this fits into the timeline of "Strandpiel 2", which continues Book One and takes place at the same time… events alluded to here, marginal to this story, will be more central in S2, when it gets going.
Still lots of reviews and PM's to be dealt with. Apologies. Five ten-hour days at work tends to truncate time for other things. But at least I now have four days off.(EDIT: took two of them to get to this point, though!)
Current listening: Bok van Blerk, "Blouwildebliksemsfontein", which I gather is not a real place in South Africa, but with a name like that, it deserves to be one. "Blue Wild Bastards Spring"?
Current TV: Discovered an archive TV station doing re-runs of old shows. I've been watching the old crime show "Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)" and... wow. It isn't the plots, which are full of holes and quite cheesy. It's that this is a show that was made in 1969-70 and regularly repeated on TV while I was growing up. It's still quite funny - private detective assisted by the ghost of his dead partner, an original idea at the time. I was maybe seven or eight when it was made and the locations, the clothes, the old cars – especially the locations… so evocative of early childhood for me. Wow.
But, on with the current tale! In which this story arc is – hopefully – wrapped up, loose ends tidied, and possible story lines for the future of the Air Watch are implied. (It's never the one you think you're going to develop… I bet I come back to this a few months down the line and pick up a previously disregarded one-liner and go "hmmm…" )
Monday, 10th Grune. The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork, 11:30am.
Captain Olga Romanoff shifted moodily in her seat, behind the Air Watch Commanding Officer's desk. She contemplated the four walls of her office and the unparalleled view of the Tanty Prison's forbidding and barred upper storeys that the window allowed. She reflected on the irony that her own window also had bars on the outside, one of Mr Vimes's security measures. Okay, so it makes a sort of sense that the police headquarters should be a close neighbour to the City's main prison. But still…
Olga sighed a deep resigned Rodinian sigh and got back to the piles of paperwork in front of her. She'd only been on enforced ground duties for three hours and it was already getting tedious. Sergeant Raskova was Duty Control, so she couldn't even take over there to get the thrill of flight by proxy. Her two Lieutenants, Irena Politek and Nadezhda Popova, had both very firmly said "Leave it to us." in a way that closed down any argument. Nadezhda had made a point of delivering a mid-morning glass of tea, Olga suspected just to make sure she was in the office and was not up on the flight-deck, contemplating grabbing a broom and getting airborne against medical advice.
Olga had toured the base, projecting an aura of "moody Squadron Commander who is at a loose end, as she has been told not to fly."
Everybody had been watching. Senior Tek Sergeant Schmidt had been very nervous when she had gone into a hangar and contemplated the racked broomsticks around the walls, each under its pilot's name for ease of retrieval if a fast scramble was called for.
"Errr…." Schmidt had said, watching her looking speculatively at the broom underneath the name О.А.Э. Романофя (Капитан).
She had understood immediately, and stepped back, not wanting to put him in a difficult place. The Teks had also received the word, most probably from Irena, that she was not to fly.
Realising she was making people edgy, she had returned to the C.O.'s office. To pass the time and to put off the paperwork(1), she had read the morning papers. They were still full of the Syrittan Emergency and up to a point, pleasingly reverential of the job done by the Air Watch. She read a profile of Lieutenant Nadezhda Popova (40), under the Woman of the Week header in the Times, and smiled slightly. They'd even managed to find a flattering picture of Mother Hen from somewhere. Olga appreciated this: she knew that if the newspapers really wanted to print knocking copy about somebody, they'd find the worst, least flattering, ugliest picture of the person just to emphasise the point, on the grounds that a picture is worth a thousand words. (2) Conversely, they'd selected an iconograph of Mother Hen at her best, a matronly but attractive woman of forty with her long dark hair informally unbound.
What is known about this modest woman, the newest ranking officer of the Air Watch, the chosen commander of the spectacular and powerful new Heavy Squadron, who does not seek publicity and has so far declined to be interviewed?
Olga made a note to herself. Good publicity and having the Times onside was not to be scorned. She would quietly persuade Nadezhda to be interviewed. In her presence, naturally, as her commanding officer. Use this weapon, while the newspapers are on our side and we have it.
It is known she is a Yermakian Cossack, a girl brought up among the horse-people of the Hubwards Steppes, from the bleak and inhospitable region known today as the Vortex Plains, which Rodinians call Сибирь, Syber'ya. She became a Witch at a young age, learning the Craft first in her homeland and moving to Lancre at the age of eighteen where her talent was honed still further and she learned to speak Morporkian. After three years in Lancre and a space serving her own people as a Witch on the Vortex Plains, the siren, or perhaps Syren, call of the open skies seduced her to Ankh-Morpork and the City Air Watch where she became one of The First of the Few, alongside Olga Romanoff, Irena Politek, Princess Esmerelda Margaret Garlick, Countess Hanna von Strafenburg, Marina Raskova, and others. Lieutenant Popova is also a veteran of the vicious air war in Lancre against the E***s…"
Olga read on, approving of the favourable coverage, noting Nadezhda's husband, Yuri Timofeyevich Yermak (46), got a mention as a Tutor In Advanced Equestrian Skills and Cavalry Combat at the Assassins' Guild School ("…he is not a qualified Assassin nor more than an Associate Guild Member, but then again, with his skills and background, even the Guild would concede that he has no need to be") and that she had two sons and a daughter.
It was the opinion pieces in both newspapers that took the smile away and made her frown. In the case of the Inquirer's opinionated columnist, it actually made her scowl.
The Inquirer freely conceded the pivotal role played by the Air Watch in delivering a much-deserved kicking to the Klatchians and that they deserved the thanks of a grateful City. But, and here was the sticking point, none of the five most senior ranks in the Air Watch was actually a native Ankh-Morporkian. In the opinion of the Inquirer's columnist, this mattered.
Two Rodinians, now three. One from Überwald. The fifth from Lancre. Do we not have any home-grown talent, the columnist demanded. Where are the Ankh-Morporkian girls in our Air Watch?
Olga, fuming slightly, recited a list of names. "Well, brat, we have Sophie Rawlinson. Jennifer Johnson. Stacey Matlock. Tillie Glossop…"
She read on. The rest was equally loathesome.
This begs several big questions which need answers. With a predominance of Rodinians in the Air Watch, are they reserving the top jobs for themselves? Especially now there is a third commissioned officer, also a Rodinian, in a command position. A leg-up for the girls, Olga? And why are we expecting what amounts to paid mercenaries to fight Ankh-Morpork's wars for her?
Olga's Second Thoughts tapped her on the shoulder.
"Remember Vetinari's reply when you proposed promoting Nadezhda to Lieutenant?" they said. "He said he had "one little reservation", didn't explain what it was, then said he had no wish to interfere in Watch internal business?"
Olga felt as if the shoe had dropped. Vetinari had seen something like this coming. And he'd left her to find out for herself. Damn him. She forced herself to read on, and censored the inner Witch from wishing seven kinds of Hell on Richard Littlehampton. (3)
Let's not kid ourselves. Rodinians are in our City in some numbers. Nationalism is on the rise. There are at least three countries out there which are being destabilised by Rodinian nationalists, extremists and fanatics. The Pan-Rodinian movement. Which wants the Empire back. And the ones who are even worse, who want the Union of Soviets back.
OUR CITY IS POTENTIALLY THEIR BATTLEGROUND!
Olga shook her head. She knew about Pan-Rodinianism. Of course it would happen. A people without a country who were now subjects of other people's countries. What else could you expect? A people content to be lesser subjects of foreign rulers in places like Borogravia, Zlobenia and Mouldavia? She, Olga Romanoff, sought to stay well clear of this. Despite all the covert and sometimes not-even-hinted offers to her to get involved. Cousin Natasha got these approaches too. Both the Ladies Romanoff had agreed with each other not to touch such things, not even with the muddy end of a Vulga Boatman's long pole. They could both see trouble coming.(4)
She read on, conscientiously trying not to wish anything nasty on Littlehampton. It was as repulsive as she feared. Her people were yet another immigrant group, aliens who lacked good honest Ankh-Morporkian values. Let into the city in significant numbers because of a lax and over-generous immigration policy, or lack of. A religion based on potatoes and vodka. In fact, over-reliance on vodka. An outlandish language that considered our honest alphabet was not good enough.(5). Therefore can we trust them? And when so many of them are in the Air Watch, how can we be certain that we are not training people with no ultimate loyalty in Ankh-Morpork, at vast taxpayer expense, who when it suits them might desert to fight for another country, taking that expertise and equipment with them?
Olga had had enough. She scrunched up the newspaper and hurled it, with excessive force, towards the office bin. It didn't help her temper that it missed.
After a few moments of expressive swearing, she calmed herself and settled down to the office work to take her mind off the insulting annoyance. At least she knew what was being openly said, and could now evolve a strategy to counter it.
Olga sighed and reached for the stack of timesheets and pay indents. After the week everybody had had, she really wanted to get this absolutely correct. It would require focus and concentration. She noted the second stack, neatly arranged in alphabetical order of name and arm of service. There was a memo from Inspector Pessimal paper-clipped to the top. She read it. Apparently these had been couriered over from the Palace and represented Vetinari's authorised bonus payments for exceptional and exemplary service by the Air Watch during the emergency. Please can you add the amounts to the wageslips so that these special performance bonuses can be paid, then return the authorisation forms so that the Watch can then claim back from the Palace?
Olga smiled slightly, suspecting that the Palace would take ages to pay, leaving the Duke of Ankh to make up the money in the interim. That was Vetinari too. And Sam Vimes.
She diligently set about matching the palace bonuses to the Watchman, and calculating amounts so that Pessimal could then make up the actual pay-packets. His own office was, these days, well staffed for Watch administration. With so many Watchmen and Auxiliaries and Specials these days, it had to be.
Badge No. 594, Air Watch Pilot Officer Budonova, N.V.D. Two full days' service. Regular Watch Pay. Flight Supplement. Pegasus Service Supplement. Combat Zone pay. Olga paused. Plus a special bonus from Vetinari.
She totalled an amount, reflected the total wasn't a bad deal for two days' pay, reflected again that Vasilisa had more than deserved it, and added her initials O.A.E.R. next to the total.
Badge No. 523, Air Watch Pilot Officer Smith-Rhodes, R.M.I. Two full days' service. Regular Watch Pay. Flight Supplement. Pegasus Service Supplement. Combat Zone pay. Olga paused. She also worked Saturday and Sunday for a special mission. Therefore make that four days Watch pay, even though she was technically off-duty the moment they arrived back in Ankh-Morpork. Mr Vimes has told me I can err on the side of generosity. Therefore, let me be generous. She has deserved her pay. She also merits special flight pay and combat zone pay for what she did in the raid. Therefore, for Saturday and Sunday. Double those daily amounts. But the Saturday night raid only incidentally involved her Pegasus. So one Pegasus supplement here, for the Syrrit flight and regular duties on the following day. Plus the special bonus from Vetinari. Well, running a Steading means there should be some regular money coming in. A witch should not be paid cash for working as a witch. Inviolable rule. But you cannot easily live in a vocation that pays no actual cash.
There was a cursory knock on the door.
"Did you want anything?" Olga said to Lieutenant Irena Politek as she walked in.
Irena looked at her.
"Just making sure." she said.
Olga frowned.
"It was only a superficial burn. Some bruising and damage to tissues underneath. I fail to see why everybody is making a fuss about it."
Irena shook her head.
"Only a burn." she repeated. "Ye Gods, Olga. I know Igorina put it right and you'll come out with barely a scar, but if that had been me, I wouldn't even be flying a desk, I'd be on sick-leave!"
"That may be so." Olga said. "Irena, please take it as understood I am not going to fly today, and correctly processing over a hundred wage dockets will take up a lot of my time right now?"
It was her invitation to leave. Irena pretended not to notice.
"You'd be surprised how many people are concerned for you." Irena pressed on. "If you even think of getting on a broomstick or a Pegasus today, there is going to be a lot of technical assault-on-a-senior-officer when you get physically dragged off it again, you know that?"
Olga smiled slightly.
"Da. I know. Irena, can you take Raduga Desh up on a leading rein, give him exercise? He will fly where his sister goes."
"Gladly."
Irena took in the crumpled mess of newspaper that had missed the litter bin.
"Left arm throw?" Irena asked. "Thank goodness you aren't flying today. That wound must have affected your aim."
Olga scowled at her. Irena, undeterred, continued.
"Seriously, that pile of govno in the Inquirer. That's what I want to see you about, Olga. The girls are furious. And the Teks. A lot of them are Rodinian Dwarves. The Überwaldean Dwarves aren't happy, either."
Olga considered.
"Meeting in this office, at three. I want you, Nadezhda, Hanna and Nottie. You know, all the paid mercenaries whose loyalty is ultimately to other countries and causes."
Irena grinned broadly.
"You've got it, Olga. What about Gertrude? She's a sergeant too. And technically Borogravian. And the senior Teks. Mr Schmidt, Mr Oyeff and Mr van Fokker. They aren't pleased either."
"Da. Good point. Get them all here. I also need to discuss some of the things Vetinari dropped on me yesterday. Get ideas and reactions. Tell everybody else I am aware and we are dealing with it. They are to be professional and to do the job that is in front of them. Now. Is that all, Lieutenant?"
"Da, Captain."
Irena saluted, and left. Olga got on with the wage dockets. She doggedly plodded on with them until she came to Badge No. 588, Air Watch Captain, Romanoff, O.A.E…. she was about to set this to one side, as she usually did. As Air Watch commander, Olga could sign off her own pay. There was nothing to stop her. But she usually asked somebody like Carrot or even Mr Vimes to check it off and sign it off for her. It was always best if somebody else okayed her pay. So that everything could be seen to be above board. She visually checked that everything was itemised and costed and added up correctly, then looked to find any corresponding Palace docket for a performance bonus. Idly, she wondered what Vetinari had approved as correct and appropriate for her. Probably what he would call "a sufficiency".
Olga discovered the Palace authorisation with her name on it, looked down, and blinked in surprise. (6) She looked at it again. No, it still said that. And it was initialled RD. Rufus Drumknott would not make errors like that. She set her own wage indent and the Palace docket to one side of the desk, with immense care, set a paperweight on top of them so they would not get lost, then got back to other peoples' pay.
The next knock on the door was a loud and authoritative one, of the sort that normally came just before "City Watch. Open the door or we force entry. Your choice."
She sat up straighter.
"Come in, Mr Vimes." she said.
Sam Vimes walked into the office. He gave Olga a long not unfriendly scrutinising look.
"Don't tell me. You are just making sure." she said.
Vimes gave her a slightly embarrassed grin.
"Well, you know. Sybil said to make sure you're taking it easy." he said. "She was quite concerned when she found out you'd taken a hit."
"Nichevo." Olga said, shrugging. "It will heal."
Vimes touched the scar on his face, thoughtfully.
"They do. Yes." he said. He nodded down at the wreckage of a daily newspaper that had failed to find the bin.
"I see you read the Inquirer this morning." he remarked.
Olga nodded, grimly.
"Dick Littledick being, well, a dick." Vimes said. "I'm going to have words with that bloody editor. And if there's ever a chance to book Littledick for anything at all. Then I'm taking it. Anyone who says that about any of my officers. Of any nationality. That sort of thing, I do not like."
He looked over at her with some concern, then took the guest chair.
"That bloody Fourecksian told me she imagined you'd be bloody well farting sparks when you read that." he said. "And the little Swommi maniac was saying "perkele" a lot. Then again, they're both disloyal mercenaries too. I guess they're both going home soon, now the Emergency is over?"
Olga relaxed. This was Air Watch business.
"Well. Marina, Sergeant Raskova, is keen to be a regular part-timer again. She wishes to be with us for perhaps two days a week. She is loving being a ground controller. Kiiki will come with her, naturally."
Olga saw the slight wince of pain on Vimes' face.
"Darleen is undecided. But I suspect she misses the Air Watch more than she thinks. I can accommodate her too."
"Okay. How are they going to get here? Fourecks isn't like nipping down to the newsagent on the corner for a packet of fags. It's a longer walk."
Olga smiled.
"Pegasi, Mr Vimes. I have two thirteen-year-old cadets who are too young for the regular Watch. But they have Pegasi. It will be good for them to get used to regular transport runs. Taxi fares. They can pick up and return."
"Training."
"Da. Training. New people coming up the ranks. Who by the time they are sixteen and seventeen, can be sworn in. The oath we all take."
Vimes nodded.
"Worth mentioning to that bloody Editor. And that little turd of a writer. It doesn't matter where you came from, what language you speak, what size or shape or species you are. We are Watchmen. We all take the same oath. That matters."
"Da." Olga agreed. She suddenly felt better. Sam Vimes was watching her back.
He grinned.
"I heard what Vetinari discussed with you." he said. "I reckon among other things we need to talk promotions. Got anyone in mind?"
Olga relaxed again. This was good honest Watch business.
"Yes, sir. I'm going to need another good Sergeant. At least one. And then there are promotions to corporal and lance-corporal ranks."
"Vetinari suggested changing the rank structure for the Air Watch." Vimes said. "To mark you down as being a different arm of service."
Vimes sounded disapproving. Olga got a sense of concern here, that his Air Watch might end up being taken completely out of his control.
"It is an interesting idea." Olga said, diplomatically. "And worth consideration. After all, we refer to an Air Constable and a Pilot Officer and a Flying Officer interchangeably. But all those terms denote the same rank. I am called a Captain and a Squadron Leader. But these denote the same thing. Besides, Nadezhda is now a Squadron Leader in her own right, but as a Lieutenant she is junior to me. There are now four bases, and therefore four separate squadron commands, potentially so. If it came to war, Irena Politek is a Lieutenant while Hanna von Strafenberg and Nottie Garlick are both Sergeants, but each would command a Wing of fighting pilots and would therefore be equals. We should standardize the ranks, I think, but it will take consideration first. We should not rush this." (7)
"Then you'd command a group of squadrons. And Wings." Vimes said, thoughtfully. "Captain of the Group, maybe."
Olga considered this and frowned, sensing some echo or shadow of a reality was intruding from somewhere else. It was an odd feeling. But she was also a Witch, and odd feelings on the edge of awareness were part of being a Witch.
"Speaking of ranks." Vimes said, steering the conversation back. "Fill me in, properly, on bloody Vetinari's little ideas and suggestions, would you? I want to be sure there aren't any bloody surprises lurking to come up and try to mug me."
Olga let her mind replay the discussion with Vetinari the previous evening…
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork, the previous day, Sunday.
"Based on my meeting with him, sir, I believe Prince Khufurah is grateful and appreciative that our actions fatally weakened the opposition faction, and enabled him to re-assert power in Klatch." Olga said. She studied Vetinari, trying to get some small clue as to what was going on in his head. But he seemed immune to Witch senses, as if he knew about what a magic-user could potentially do, and had evolved defences and blocks. Every so often she sensed a little flicker of thought and emotion, but it was like trying to read a brick wall. She suspected she could get more out of a brick wall, in fact. The Palace was saturated with memories and impressions stored in the very stone; any visiting Witch had to shut down parts of her senses in self-defence. Those senses she might try to read people with. Maybe he knew this…
"Continue, Captain Romanoff." the Patrician prompted her.
"Otherwise, he would not have consented to, for instance, sending the silphium for the attention of out best botanists and horticulturalists. Nor would he have proposed joint stock companies for commercial ventures, or exchanges between our Universities. I believe the silphium is a symbolic gesture. He is interested, greatly so, in introducing reform in Klatch."
"You seem on the verge of adding a "...but…" there, Captain Romanoff." Vetinari observed. "Khufurah is grateful to us, and cannot be seen to be saying this openly, therefore he is making long-desired concessions. He is also prepared to accept a daily newspaper available to all. Or at least to all who can pay thirty piastres."
Vetinari smiled slightly. Olga guessed he'd achieved some sort of policy objective with the newspaper business. But what, exactly? (8)
"They also want greater access to the Clacks, and Khufurah raised the possibility of a Rail Way link connecting the major cities along the Circle Sea coast."
Vetinari nodded.
"Make a note, Drumknott. Lord Harry King, Mr von Lipwig and Mr Simnel. Who I fancy might relish the challenges of engineering a Rail Way through a desert."
"Where will they find the coal, sir?" Drumknott asked. "Klatch is not famous for its coal mining."
Vetinari gave him a tolerant look.
"They buy it from us, Drumknott. As they will buy the engineering expertise, and pay us to manufacture their locomotives."
Olga frowned.
"Sir, may I counsel that the Rail Ways take on suitably inclined Klatchians, and teaches them how to build these things?" she asked, urgently. "That we are generous with our knowledge and our expertise?"
"Ah, this is the but." Vetinari observed. "Continue, Captain."
"From what I know about Klatchians, they are a proud people." Olga said. "The world has just seen them defeated and forced to withdraw in disorder from Syrrit and Laotan. Their Air Force is destroyed and proved inferior to ours in all respects. I heard in Klatch that their Navy backed down from a confrontation with our warships. They have lost face in the eyes of the world, sir. We must not be seen to be humiliating them in defeat. If nothing else, there will be those who will remember. Who will bide their time and in twenty, thirty, forty, years, will want to fight us again to wipe out the memory."
Olga paused for breath. She had a vision of her own daughter, adult now, in an Air Watch uniform, leading fighting pilots out in a new war. It was not a comforting thought.
"The Klatchians must be seen to be getting something out of this. If nothing else, so that Prince Khufurah can tell his people it was not a complete disaster. Something real, tangible, and unforced on our side."
Vetinari nodded.
"Good points, Captain. And well made. Therefore when the Klatchian Air Force is rebuilt – I understand you are advising on this – you will have no objection to their being equipped with Omnicon technomancy?"
Olga suddenly forgot she was Rodinian and a Witch, and her jaw dropped. Vetinari noted this and smiled.
"Professor Stibbons?" he invited.
"It's not as bad as it sounds, Olga." Ponder said, soothingly. "I believe we've made a technomantic breakthrough. We will soon be able to make Omnicons in larger numbers. I'll tell you how later. What we can do. We can export – sell – Omnicons to the Klatchians. After all, their Air Force operates over a lot of mountains and deserts. Errr. You're a pilot, Olga. Things can crash-land. Imagine a flying carpet goes down in the deep desert and the crew survive, but have no hope of rescue? If they have an Omnicon, they can call for help. We can build in a locator that means a rescue flight can home in, and know where to look. Rescue the pilots."
Ponder, who was looking an unexploded Olga Romanoff full in the face, was nervous.
"After all. You're aviators. A brotherhood. Sisterhood. A hood, anyway. Errr…."
Olga contemplated this. Finally she said
"You are correct. I would not wish such a fate to happen to any of my pilots. Or to any pilots. Omnicons make survival and rescue easier and faster. But even so…"
"Olga? We're making them." Ponder said. "HEX is involved. Do you really think we'd let them intercept our comms again? The ones going to Klatch will be tuned to a different thaumatalogical wavelength. They will never be able to listen to our comms again."
Ponder smiled a satisfied smile. "But we can build them so that we can listen in to theirs. Easily."
"Capital." Vetinari said. "So we're agreed."
He turned to Olga again.
"Khufurah made a good suggestion to me in private correspondence. He pointed out that our relative Embassies have military attachés representing the Army, and naval attachés representing the Navy. He has suggested we go a step beyond that and exchange Air Attachés. Who, according to precedent and protocol, are invited to military manoeuvres, demonstrations of new equipment, and are generally hosted by the host nation's military. I consider this to be a capital idea."
He smiled benevolently at Olga.
"I therefore require you to nominate an Air Attaché to go to our Embassy in Klatch. My suggestion would be the Crown Princess Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling Garlick of Lancre."
"Nottie? But I don't have enough Ground Controllers as it is, and she's a very experienced sergeant, and…"
"Her father is all in favour of it." Vetinari said, smoothly. "He was receptive to the idea that because one day she will be Queen, the experience of working as a diplomat at a major Embassy, located in the capital city of a world power, will round her out admirably. King Verence gave his blessing immediately by return of Clacks."
Olga sighed a deep resigned sigh. She wondered who she could train as a new controller. And how to tell Nottie.
"Lieutenant Garlick can leave for Klatch after the celebratory parade." Vetinari went on.
"Lieutenant?" Olga asked.
"Of course, Captain Romanoff. A military attaché generally has commissioned officer rank. Sergeant, although honourable and a mark of status, doesn't quite fit the profile."
Then Olga's brain caught up.
"Celebratory parade?" she asked.
"For which you are required to parade your full strength." Vetinari said, smoothly. "There is to be a church parade at Small Gods to give thanks for the Air Watch and its part in the recent almost-a-victory. High Priest Ridcully is most keen to officiate in his role as Chaplain-General to our armed forces, and I do like to see people in the roles to which they are most fitted. Full dress uniforms are mandated. The Air Watch is to be presented with consecrated standards, and you are then obliged by military protocol to march them through the city, with bayonets gleaming and swords shining. At the Maul, there is to be a presentation of medals and decorations to members of your command who distinguished themselves. Including you, by the way. No doubt Sergeant von Strafenberg will be a most efficient drill instructor in the coming weeks."
So that's it." Olga said to Vimes.
"Nottie made up as at least an Acting Lieutenant while she's on detached service." Vimes said. "Well, there's a precedent. We stepped Haddock up to Captain while he was serving in Quirm. He dropped back to substantive Sergeant when we got him back." (9)
"The question is, who do I promote to replace her." Olga said. "It cannot be one of the part-timers, good though they are. Operational reasons dictate key officers and sergeants must be from the full-time people. But I don't think I have anyone old enough or experienced enough."
Vimes agreed it was a problem. The average age of an Air Witch was around twenty. Sergeants tended to be older and with a lot of experience behind them.
"Does she have to fly?" Vimes asked. "Or to be a witch? I can let you have, for a possibility, Sergeant Tereschkova. She's one of your people, so she'll fit in. and it'd be a finger up to Littledick, the one who complains there's too many of your people in the Air Watch."
Olga contemplated Sergeant Valentina Tereschkova, who had arrived on loan from the Militsya in Blondograd to learn about Ankh-Morporkian policing. She had liked it in Ankh-Morpork and was looking for reasons to stay on.
"Da." Olga said, thoughtfully. The idea had some merit. "I can train her for aircrew duties. Perhaps observer and crossbow operator on a two-seater. Air experience will demonstrate what we are about and what we do. So that a sergeant coming in from outside would fit better."
"Try her on ground control." Vimes said. "From my point of view, Olga, now it looks as if more Omnicons are going to go to Watchmen on the ground, a Controller who comes from the Ostrich side would be useful. Somebody who sees it from the ground up rather than from the air down, so to speak. Would it help if I put the word out for volunteers? You can vet them, see if they've got what it takes. The Right Stuff."
They talked promotions for a while longer, Olga respecting and appreciating Mr Vimes' advice and experience.
"Sophie Rawlinson is a natural leader." Olga said. "She has presence and authority. One day she will be a sergeant. But today she is barely seventeen. Over-promoting her now would be no service to anyone."
"Give her one stripe then, as a starter." Vimes said. "Bring her on. She's certainly got it. And it helps, for people who think these things matter, that she's Ankh-Morporkian. Well, from the Shires, anyway. Littledick can't object to that. How about people like Vasilisa? Or Rebecka?"
"Nyet." Olga said, firmly. "Firebird is a follower, a wing-mate. She is remarkable and she is capable, but she is not a leader. She perhaps prefers at her age to be led and have others make the decisions. Give her five or ten years, who knows? Vasilisa is perhaps one who could take a single stripe. The idea has merit. But let me run a candidate for full corporal past you…"
Vimes took a disbelieving deep breath.
"Corporal Pekissaalen." he said. "The maniac. You're asking a lot, Olga."
"It is worth experimenting with, Mr Vimes. It may kick-start her into maturity. And if it does not work, we can take the stripes away."
"Punish her with promotion." Vimes said, grinning. "And her other and better half is already a Sergeant, who can pull rank."
They decided on a provisional promotions list, agreeing to leak it to the newspapers, just to make the point.(10)
Finally, Olga asked if Mr Vimes could review her own wage indent. He glanced it over, then initialled the corner. He was about to put it down when he saw the Palace docket. He frowned, then looked at it more closely.
"Well. Drumknott's approved it. And he's another Pessimal. Hell's bells, he would have trained Pessimal."
He looked at her and grinned.
"Palace approved. Clearly. So nothing to do with me. If you like, I'll mention it when I'm down there later on. Ask if they can clarify. You need me at this officers' meeting later, over the Inquirer spouting bullshit about you?"
The week progressed. On the Wednesday morning, Olga stood on the flight deck of the Air Station, still grounded for medical reasons and feeling grumpy about it, to see her three Reservists standing down and about to fly back to their homes. Sam Vimes had loafed up to the Air Station too. Olga suspected he wanted to make absolutely certain beyond all shadow of a doubt that Darleen and Kiiki were leaving.
She hugged and kissed all three and thanked them for their help.
"The money helps." said the newly-appointed Corporal Pekissaalen. "Vittuperkele, Olga. I might forgive you for this, some coming day."
"It will do you good, Kiiki."
Kiiki made a derisory snort.
"Paska. I remember senior lance-constable with Pegasus. Two senior lance-constables with Pegasus. Both of them swearing they will not be promoted, as too much paska for too little money. And what happens, today one is Captain and the other Lieutenant."
"Pravda. But people change. You too, maybe. And promotion did me good. And for Irena."
She and Marina Raskova hugged, with great and obvious affection.
"A week here, and you've lost weight." Olga said.
"Da." Marina agreed. "A busy time with much hard work."
"A purpose again." Olga said. "You will be back for shift next Thursday?"
"I love it." Marina said. "Being Controller. A chance to fly with the Watch again. I missed that so much. After Lancre, I never thought I would."
"Horoscho." Olga said. "Welcome home, Marina."
She turned to Darleen O'Halloran.
"How's the singed tit?" Darleen asked.
"Healing." replied Olga. "You will be back next Tuesday, to offer me new opportunities to fart sparks and cause a bloody bush-fire?"
"Get you and Stoneface madder 'n a bag of cut snakes? You bloody well bet!"
"That's Commander Stoneface to you, Air Constable." Vimes said. But he still shook hands with all three. (11)
Vimes turned to the Pegasus pilots who would be ferrying the Reservists home. Jayjay, Jennifer Johnston, he knew. Solid, steady, good copper, does the long Pegasus runs to places like Skythia and Rehigreed and the Neverlands. Widdershins Sea states, on the other side of Ghat and Muntab.
But the other two were a bit on the young side…
Olga stepped up.
"Sir, Air Watch Cadet Alexandra Karalovna Mamirikinya" she said. "She was training for witchcraft in Lancre. A Pegasus adopted her. Therefore she is now on the City circuit, under my direction and that of Lieutenant Popova."
Vimes noted the girl was about fourteen, not conventionally attractive, the sort of face and look that suggested Hag status was something she'd naturally grow into, with a look of intelligence and vitality about her. He nodded to her. She looked like she had the Right Stuff to be Watch.
"First operational mission for the Air Watch, young lady?" he asked, trying not to be too gruff.
"Da, Commissar Vimes." she replied.
Vimes tried not to wince at the Commissar bit. All the new ones from Far Überwald called him that. Irena Politek had assured him it came from the same general sort of area as Commander. With, he recalled, a completely straight face. Apparently the commander of the, what did they call it, Militia(12), in Blondograd, was a Commissar.
He took her hand.
"Sergeant Garlick started as a Pegasus pilot when she was thirteen." he said, remembering. "She did well. I'm sure you will, too."
"Da." Olga said. "Your first working flight, Fledgling. You have an experienced Navigator to get you and your passenger there and to bring you back. Safe journey, devyuschka! Когда ты вернешься, девочка, подойди ко мне, и я покажу тебе, как получить оплату за перелет."(13)
"спасибо большое, капитан" the girl replied.
Just for an instant, Vimes uncharitably wondered if that little turd at the Inquirer might have had a valid point after all.
"Olga?" he asked, when she had concluded the quick-kiss-on-both-cheeks thing. "remember what I told you about recruiting girls with short names?"
Olga smiled slightly.
"The Pegasus was not aware of this when it chose Lexi." she said, reasonably. She moved to the next Pegasus and its equally young pilot.
"A local girl, from Dolly Sisters." she said. "So not too far for her to commute to work, and no excuse for being late."
She nodded to Vimes.
"Air Watch Cadet Jane Smith." she said. "Now what was that you were saying again about short names?"
A little later, three Pegasi set off on a straightforward taxi-run.
Olga and Vimes watched them taking off and listened to the Omnicon chatter.
"I will teach them both how to complete a time-sheet later, for pay purposes, Mr Vimes." she said.
"Flight pay and Pegasus pay?" Vimes asked, resignedly.
"Yes, sir. I'm not sure if they should have the daily Watch rate, as they are of course not yet Watch. Perhaps we should look into Cadets receiving a separate rate, less than that of a full Watchman, obviously. An apprentice rate, perhaps, like that paid to young people their own age training for trades and professions."
They watched the three Pegasi ascend to the approved height for Transition. Olga saw the triple flash of octarine as they winked out of this sky. Vimes was sure he glimpsed a couple of moving specks on the edge of vision suddenly disappear. An Omnicon picked up Jayjay announcing to Red Star Control that the Fledgling flight she was shepherding was now Transiting… and then nothing.
"So it's all over." Vimes said, lighting a cigar. "Your Reservists standing down and getting a courtesy flight home."
"Da." Olga said. "But now we have a little tidying-up to do. The Klatchians are sending their Special Plenipotentiary Representative to speak to Vetinari. Who is likely to take position as their Air Attaché. And therefore one I will have to deal with and be hospitable to."
Vimes patted her arm.
"You know how to do it, Olga. Nobody ever seriously believes their host is showing them everything. So show this bloody Klatchian everything about the Air Station – except the stuff you want to keep hidden. They're going to be doing the same to Nottie, after all."
"Da. Nottie."
Vimes took her arm again.
"Got her leaving party planned? If I were you, I'd make it a good one. Something to remember. And it's only for a year."
Olga considered this. The sounds of a drill session in progress drifted over from the training base at the Lemonade Factory. And the drill-sergeant's voice calling the commands was not a male one. Nor was it a troll one. Olga sighed. She had it yet to come.
"I know. You can't spare everyone. So Hanna's having to take them a dozen at a time to shout at on the drill square." Vimes said.
Olga sighed again.
"And for those who do not yet have full-dress uniforms. I need to send them to the tailors in groups of two or three."
Vimes patted her shoulder.
"Send me the bills." he requested. "Let's get the bullshit over with. By the way, Olga. That Palace bonus. It wasn't an administrative error. Not at all. Vetinari made it clear."
"Sir?" Olga said, surprised. She really had thought once the error had been brought to their attention, they'd scale it down a bit. Then she'd shrugged, and put it out of her mind.
Vimes grinned.
"Can I tell you it in Vetinari's own words? He asked you to recall that you were a Lieutenant for a long time, even after Lancre, because the numbers you commanded were too small to justify making you a Captain. Then the Air Watch got more people and you got pregnant. You went on maternity leave. You had twins. Making you a Captain was Vetinari's suggestion. He said he rather fancied a mother of two needed that bit extra in her pay packet. You with me so far?"
Olga nodded. She was getting an intimation as to what was coming next.
"Now this time we can't promote you any higher. Or you'd be on the same rank level as Carrot. Or even me. But Vetinari said that you live in an apartment that's getting too small. Two bedrooms. He appreciates that a brother and a sister can share a room when they're five, but sooner or later they're going to want their own space. Especially a daughter."
Vimes grinned at her.
"He's really pleased with what you did over Klatch. I'm prepared to believe that just every so often, he can do something normally human and decent. Hence your bonus."
Olga thought quickly.
"Almost enough to buy a house with." she said.
"Yes. Vetinari said that in the current property market, if you add in what you've saved for a deposit and sell the freehold on your apartment when you move out, that should be sufficient for a family home in this city."
He paused a moment.
"Vetinari said there will be properties available on and around Spa Lane in the near future." Vimes prompted. "Apparently people get nervous about living on a street with so many bloody Assassins living on it."
Olga was silent.
"Olga? Maybe he does like to see his key people being settled and secure." Vimes said. "Or else he knows you also have a family home in Rimwards Howondaland, and he'd rather like you here more often, where he can keep an eye on you."
Perhaps he wants me to be beholden to him, she thought. But, damn him, he knows Eddie and I really need a house big enough for four. Maybe with room in reserve for a fifth… I can't afford to turn this down… and Spa Lane is a really nice part of town, and Nap Hill is a very pleasant district…
"I accept. If you see him before I do, thank him for me." Olga said.
To be continued – more after-echoes to come….
(1) Because some habits of mind are engrained in senior Watch officers, possibly due to osmosis from Sam Vimes. No senior officer used to activity and action likes the look of a massive stack of essential paperwork. And you only know if it's essential or not once you've read it.
(2) Ask yourself why the press photos of a person charged with an ugly crime always seem to show an ill-at-ease, shifty, staring-eyed clearly guilty psycho. Okay, the person might actually be a swivel-eyed sociopath and often is. But a certain bias applies: you can also see photos of Jeffrey Darmer, Peter Sutcliffe, Harold Shipman, et c, taken in less fraught circumstances in which they look like utterly unremarkable normal members of society who do not stand out at all. (or they would not have got away with it for so long – serial killers blend in- till they're caught). This is Press shorthand for "We know he's guilty, but due to pesky reporting restrictions we can't say so yet. So we're implying it").
(3) Because if a Witch even thinks of cursing somebody, things happen. Witches learn to restrain such thoughts or try to let them happen inside a quarantined inner space from which they cannot leak. Otherwise the path through the world taken by the average Witch would be strewn with corpses. Okay, she has just subvocalised "Damn Him" about Vetinari. But the Patrician probably has defences against this sort of thing.
(4) "And besides, Cousin Olgusya, could you imagine my father, or yours, as Tsar?" Natasha had shuddered. "The only one with half a chance of making it work is Uncle Casimir, and he's frankly said he doesn't want it." "Da." Olga had agreed. Both held Uncle Casimir in high regard. "Pity his son can't think ahead. Semyon got involved with such a group. When the Ambassador found out, he had Semyon exiled to Syrrit, to continue his diplomatic career there."
"Cousin Semyon." Natasha said. "Not a complete idiot. But something near it. An idiot with occasional flashes of ability."
(5) By sheer coincidence, Littlehampton was right here. On our world, St Cyril had considered the Latin alphabet as a standard for written Russian and adopted a few letters where they were right; but had decided it was not up to the job elsewhere and had added in Greek and modified Hebrew letters for the rest of the Russian language's phonemes. St Cyril on the Discworld had done the same for Rodinian, and for the same practical reasons.
(6) As she was alone in the room she could get away with this. In public she could use a poker face that would have won her some very large pots, if she'd had the slightest interest in playing poker.
(7) What's emerging is something like the rank structure of the Royal Air Force, which for commissioned ranks runs, from least to greatest, Pilot Officer - Flying Officer – Flight Lieutenant – Squadron Leader – Wing Commander – Group Captain – Air Commodore – Air Vice Marshal – Air Marshal –Air Chief Marshal - Marshal Of The Royal Air Force. Thanks to reader Rooksey for proof-reading this bit, please don't ask me about all the plain and braided rings and bands on the cuffs and epaulettes!
(8) " It is very simple, Captain. A newspaper, independently managed, holds the business of Government up to scrutiny. It is staffed by people who have an obsession with rooting out facts others may wish to keep hidden. No government can hope to operate in darkness and secrecy while there are newspapers. Which interpret the doings of government to the people. The existence of newspapers keeps politicians relatively honest. An informed populace may not wish, for instance, to be conscripted into wars which are not fought for their benefit. An informed populace will question what they are told. Newspapers drive open-ness and transparency in government. They are part of what for want of a better word might be called Progress." Vetinari paused for a few seconds, and added
"There are ways around this, of course, but Klatch being dragged kicking and screaming into the new millennium can be nothing other than a good thing."
(9) go to Snuff, by Terry Pratchett.
(10) "The point is that I and my capable Captains can promote anyone they bloody well like regardless of nationality, with the only relevant criteria being that they are capable of doing the bloody job."
(11) Vimes said later that pilots are mad people. Watch pilots were people you needed to make allowances for. Especially double-combat veterans who wore the five-eighty-eight. Twice. Once for Lancre and once for Syrrit.
(12) Under one previous administration, the Militsya, the civilian police, had been subordinate to the Kommittee of General Benevolence. Which was headed by a People's Commissar for Internal Security.
(13) Okay. Google Translate, so I make no claims for complete accuracy or relevance. Olga is saying "Come to me when you return, devyuschka, and I will instruct you in how to fill in a timesheet for your flight pay."
Notes Dump: A place protected and guarded against commando raids taking place by night to destroy things before they can get off the ground.
Possible future stories:
In Fourecks: Tales Of The Flying Igor (And Witch) Service.
Up in the Swommi country: the nearest thing to a Watch is asked to assist in tracking down a fugitive. Marina and Kiiki go man-hunting along with out-of-place City Watchmen who learn about things Swommi. A gloomy Hubsvensskan detective may be involved. Or perhaps a slightly strange Scattergutsian policewoman who favours big shapeless woolly pullies. Well, it gets exposed out on the Bridge. (Q - are there any native Finnish cop shows that could be parodied here? There must be, but they just haven't made it to British TV yet...)
The one which I think has legs – and wings. The Air Watch has, up until now, believed that its Pegasi are completely safe as they will not respond to the commands of anybody but their bonded Witch. Therefore there is no point in stealing one, as it will just sit there and not respond. Until now, when Olga Romanoff is proven to be dead wrong. Events eventuate. This one is being sketched out.
Murder on The Aurient Express? That title leapt, fully formed, into my head. I really want to do Agatha Christie in a Discworld context. Sam Vimes, on a luxury long distance train, all his needs met except the one for action and police work, gets utterly bored. There is also a short, fat, amiable, detective from another force on board. I'm thinking the Quirmian Gendarmerie. But to be true to the work being parodied, he'd have to be from the Quirmian-speaking part of the Stos. If Sto Kerrig and the border country of Phlaanders are the Netherlands of the Disc, and there is a Discworld Belgium, then… Sto Lat? Which must by the illogic have a hitherto scarcely mentioned other half that prefers, militantly, to speak Quirmian. Tentatively… Les pays des Wallés? Phlegmish versus Quirmian tensions, Phlegms and Wallés. Hmm. Thinks – research Belgium, and how the land is perceived by others and taken Up To Eleven by them.
Of course, if anybody else wants to develop a storyline based on my stuff, feel free!