The Legend of Miaree Read online

  A shuddering braking fire, then silence and a slightly discernable bump and the metallic sounds of the locks engaging, and she is standing, smiling encouragingly toward the novice, nodding with respect toward the graying veteran who amasses her carry baggage and nods in return, sending a pleasant "Good soar."

  Ah, God, the wonderful smell of it. Flyer Haven. Enclosed, safe, old but constantly renewed. Flyer Haven, a senseless squandering of the wealth of the Artonuee, according to the reactionary males, who, from their minority seats in the Interplanetary Council, mount annual battles against it, for their natural caution and the slowness of their reactions bars them from partaking of what it offers. Flyer Haven, catharsis, reward, blood of

  life to those who have known the spread of thousands of yards of golden sail running before a sun storm.

  Reused air, sweet, but marked by its mechanical treatment. A decorative and expensive touch there, at the inner lock, a planter of pleele, sweetest of the sweet, the look of which causes a stirring in the female breast and the breath of which, when pre-eggs are lodged and forming, is the most lovely of aphrodisiacs. She paused, closed her eyes in ecstasy, breathed long and deep. Then moving on the conveyor past the shops on the outer layer, the smell of a welder, acrid, cold, burning. The feel of a charge in the air as a convertor is tested, raising goose bumps on her, causing the fine, smooth fur of her body to ripple in sensation.

  She stepped off the conveyor at Operations, left her carry baggage outside, stood before the officious male at the desk. "Miaree of the Rim Star. Ten days’ provisions in place?"

  "Ah." An incline of the head. Indifference. But, about her, a lingering aroma of pleele flowers. A widening of the eyes. "Miaree." The name is hissed.

  It is, she suspects, closer than she thinks, although reading, she cannot tell. But this reaction from a young male tells her. She has seen it. And within her there is a fierce pride as she tilts her beautifully molded head imperiously and smiles. Poor male. When the time is near, he will be at his duty on Flyer Haven and she.

  On Outworld there are meadows nestled among the crags on which grow the Outworld wonders, the zoological garden of the Artonuee, a world given over to the fashioning of beautiful objects and to love.

  Close. She shakes her head. The heavy, flowing yellow of her hair moves, as if in slow motion, about her radiant face. Huge blue eyes blink, open to reflect, from their multifacets, the charge light of the arcs.

  He is checking off the list. His male lips—why are they so suddenly of interest?—say the words. Food. Necessities.

  "Ah, yes, ten days, Lady. Your credit voucher please?"

  Even old Beafly notices. "The pleele flower is sweet," he says, as she stands next to him in his shop. He tinkers with a control circuit board

  from a Class II, a beginner’s flyer with a feeble little convertor suitable only for orbital flights. "Yes, my daughter?"

  "Indeed," she admits. "You finished the major on Rim Star?"

  "Ah, a sweet ship." His hand trembles as he steadies a tool and jabs expertly into the innards of a complicated Mires expander. She, saddened, smells the age of him. "I have shared her secrets with young Runder."

  "So soon, Beafly?" From her blue eyes the dew of the sadness she feels.

  "It comes to all," he says, not looking at her. "Smelling the pleele as it clings to you, telltale, exciting, is my only reason for sadness."

  "Perhaps." She pauses. It was Beafly who checked her out in her first Class II.

  "No, daughter. See how the hand rebels?" He held it out in front of him. And she touched it. He smiled. "Could I but wait, I would break the rules and choose one of your ifflings, daughter."

  "Thank you."

  "A ten-day holiday?" He was at his work, not looking into her wide eyes. "Ten days. The signs are good. Weather predicts a flare."

  "I know. I timed it so." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry, Beafly. Do you know when?"

  "I want to walk, not crawl." He sighed. "Before you have flown and returned."

  "Ah, no."

  "I will like being there, once more. I find myself dreaming of the soft shade of the juplee. I hunger for the taste of the fruit and the coolness of its waters in my throat. Do you remember, daughter, how it tastes, the water?"

  "Yes." Winglings hover and dive, splashing, thin membranes then weighted and grounded until the sun, stronger there on The World, dries them, and as they wait, the sweet fruit, snatched playfully from the powerful maw of a hapless iffling, the smell of the flowers, the taste of the

  water.

  She had not kissed a male. "Beafly?" He turned, faced her. The thought caused her shapely backside to twitch, put life into muscles not yet used. He looked and smiled.

  "Three times I have been chosen," he said. "Never did I see one so beautiful."

  She leaned. Her long, flexible lips touched. He sighed and touched her; her thin waist felt the shaking of his old hands. And the agitated chemistry of her body flowed pleele flower aroma and filled the grimy workshop and left him dazed and weak as she broke the kiss.

  "I would consider you," she said.

  "I seek my ifflings happily," he said. His eyes were down.

  "Perhaps I will see you in—someone—somewhere. I will know, should it happen."

  "I pray so, daughter. May my iffling be kind. May I be wingling and like you, daughter."

  Eyes turned as she passed, weeping. But one does not weep long on Haven. There is too much life. An exultant novice, being toasted at the head of a dock, having her hair sprinkled with wine. A grizzled veteran standing before a trim Class VI, spacecloth immaculate.

  "Sister," Miaree greeted, pausing. "She is very lovely."

  "She tends to yaw on a sunward track."

  "But lovely. And such a flaw can be tuned out."

  "My second Bertt," the veteran flyer said. "Good man, but I think influenced by the cold of Five. Too much weight in the insulation, I fear."

  "My first was a Bertt," Miaree said. "A sweet Class II."

  "And now?"

  "A Corleu."

  Five?

  "Six."

  "Ah. You have more hours than your youth would lead one to believe." There was a new respect in the older female’s eyes. "I wanted a Corleu. The waiting list is unbelievable."

  "I was lucky," Miaree said, putting one delicate foot on the outer rim of the Bertt VI, standing casually, spacecloth draping her form, eyes drinking it in, the long lines of sports flyers at the docks, the hustle and bustle of the Haven, the chargy smell of it, the feel of space outside pressing down, the nearness of the power of the sun, the feel of it through the dome warming her skin under her delicate fur.

  "I wish more females would go into building," the veteran said. "There is a lightness. The feel of the wings, I suppose."

  "Yes."

  "Well, good flight."

  Down the line a flyer warming, converters charging at peak, rocking the ship at its moorings. The prickly feel of the charge restoring a full cheer to Miaree. And there, at the end of Dock Ten, Rim Star, the shape of the egg of an Artonuee female, graceful, shining outer hull decorated with the business instruments of flying, viewer large and all-encompassing, sail storage areas bulging like juplee fruit about to burst.

  Inside, cushioned in the seat, checking the list. Nothing forgotten. She did not want to have to abort her ten-day flight. Not because some dock hand had made a bad count. Provisions, however, checked. "Operations, thank you. Check and receive."

  "Acknowledged, Rim Star."

  "Rim Star warming."

  "Acknowledged and granted."

  The purr of it, the great, sweet hum of it. Servos cutting in. Power crackling, making that delicious prickling feeling on her inner skin.

  Charges building. Weather on one frequency saying confirmation of the forecast with figures which sent a thrill of elation through her.

  "Storm warnings for classes II through IV. Classes II and III limited to local flying not exceeding ten minutes r
eturn."

  Poor novice. The one on the shuttle.

  "Class V warning. Winds may exceed structural design limitations in the vicinity of One Planet."

  "Rim Star warmed. Charge check. Converters check. Sails check. Navigation request, unlimited. Request clearance and lift."

  "Acknowledged and granted, Rim Star."

  Ahead of her the Bertt VI, lifted on the arms of the giant crane, cradled tenderly in padded holds.

  "Stand by, Rim Star."

  Dock boys appearing, chattering, running, laughing. Lucky lads. Sacrificing immortal souls to work on the fringes of wonder, to see the flyers being lifted, to hear the hum of converters. The muted contact of the lift arms, movement. Above, the lock. Front view. Frosted dome. A push and contact with the lock and an end to the artificial gravity of Haven. A lifting in her seat against the belts, the freedom of space. A surge of elation and the hiss of evacuating air and then the instruments registering the cold of naked space on the hull and the converters humming. The outer door opening and out there down the tunnel of the lock the cold stars, the lock faced away from New World.

  "Guidance jets ready," she sent.

  "Cleared."

  "Charging."

  "Acknowledged."

  "Mass unit one-minus and lowering." The meters spinning, measuring mass of the flyer, minutely calibrated, dials glowing, hands making swift revolutions and her wide eyes following. "God, they’re cooking today." The exclamation thoughtless. No place for personal observations and chat-chat on the control channels. "Sorry, control."

  "Converter efficiency?" asked the cold, male voice of control.

  "Eighty-five-point-nine and lowering."

  "Cleared."

  "Ninety and lowering."

  "Good flight, Rim Star."

  "Ninety-eight-point-nine, steady. Expel, please."

  "Acknowledged."

  A movement. There is a strange feel about a flyer at charge. Skin tingles. Hair seemed to be individually electric. Fur is alive. With satisfaction she noted the excellence of old Beafly’s tune-up. Mass lowered, as the flyer moved along the tube and leaped. Never had she seen the convertors working so efficiently. The mass of her flyer, and herself, and all the provisions and the bottle of jenk liquor in her carry baggage, all lowered, lowered to within a few points of nonexistence. The miracle of Lonwee the Ancient, the conversion of mass, the Lonwee principle which made flying possible.

  "Rim Star clear. Sails."

  Click. Servos moving in near silence, sensed by feel. The gravitational field of New World the controlling factor as she unfurled billowing yards of diaphanous sails, extending the area of space commanded by Rim Star tenfold, a hundredfold, and more. The weak force of New World’s gravity now negated as the winds of the sun blew, and off on a wing, sails tilted, Haven diminishing in an instant. Massive acceleration as the quiet wind moved.

  She entered a new world. A world of quiet and peace. One last word. "Haven, Rim Star. Systems check. Exit path 180 reverse from Haven. Sunward inclination 45. Rim Star out, requesting privacy. Emergency frequency seven on monitor."

  "Rim Star, good flight."

  The World was in opposition, on the away side of the sun. First Planet was oblique on its near orbit, a growing dot as wind speeds were achieved, the flyer drifting across the wind on a tight tack, orbit spiraling, decreasing. Rim Star was a mote in space, near weightlessness, near zero inertia. Huge sails were battered by the force of the eternal wind, the flow of particles from the furnace which grew and gained a corona visible to the naked eye. And it was her world, her life. Below, she was valuable, a worker. Here she was Miaree of the Artonuee, female, free, flying. Here there was a play for all her senses, measuring, sensing, feeling, tasting, calculating. Fingers flew at the console keys, asking the lightning synapses of the mechanics to aid her own senses, for at wind speeds the brain was a poor, slow thing. And the distances, interplanetary, which once had cost lives and the wealth of The World, which were fearful chasms for the primitive drivers, were but winged thoughts for a mote flying at wind velocity, even beating sunward as the computer lowered mass reduction to use the gravity of the sun itself to hasten the fall toward the burning light.

  First Planet grew. Barren. Magnified by the scope of the viewer, it glared reflected light and spun its flattened hills there so near the furnace that no life grew and surface temperatures reached fearful intensity on sunside.

  The chronometer clicked. But it alone measured time. For Miaree, time was back there, on New World and Haven. When she was hungry, she ate. When she was thirsty, she drank. The flyer was cramped, but she was at home in it. As she established a spiral approach and locked in, she sang. The tune was old, old as The World, a melody keened by winglings learning. And as her heart soared, she slipped the spacecloth and was herself, slim, delicately formed, shapely. She stretched her long legs and, in unashamed narcissism, admired them, the knees, perfect. The long muscles slim and graceful. Slim waist. Lovely torso. Long neck. And all of it furred sweetly, delicately, electric to the touch as her hands smoothed it from its long captivity in the spacecloth.

  Naked Miaree, freed in space in the wings of Rim Star. Keening melody from her throat. Reaching for the jenk liquor and sipping, for she needed no further intoxication toward happiness. Happiness was flying out there close to God, and if God, being a selfish wench, abhorred company and doomed a race for Her privacy, a pox on her.

  For she was Artonuee and female and daring and was not to be held to the ground. Had not God Herself instilled the love of flight? God wanted Artonuee to fly, so She gave them wings and then, in a fit of rancor, took them, leaving only the memory; and when males said the driver was ultimate and took the race from The World to New World, Outworld, and Five, the great Lonwee said nay, and made the first convertor and flew alone and gave back the gift taken by God in spite.

  She was Artonuee and doomed, but she flew, and the sun gave her energy and the sails used it and the convertors hummed and gravity was the rudder, and down, down, down she soared on the wings of the solar wind, until with First Planet on the sunward wing, sails baffling on a hard tack, she was near, near to the source, the heat of it, the power of it.

  And to the appointed minute, the storm rose out of the white fury of the sun, an enormous flare, a hurricane of energy. Vast thermonuclear fusion reactions gutted a portion of the sun’s disc, and she felt it, felt her naked fur stand and quiver, and sails set, she waited as the winds came blasting up at thirty-seven thousand miles per second, and mass reduced to the limit of the straining convertors, the Rim Star leaped before the storm, a mote in darkness, and fled down the wind, leaving First World in the distance and passing the orbit of The World as Miaree sang the song of flight and felt the sails strain under the onslaught.

  She drank jenk as she flew past New World, letting the sweet bite of it add to her exhilaration, a tipsy, slim, beautiful Artonuee female in flight, soaring on the light of the sun, riding the most wonderful storm she’d ever had the fortune to meet. Singing, feeling the pre-eggs in her lower abdomen, letting the jenk liquor surge through her bloodstream, disobeying the rules of flight but high, high, loving it, singing it, lithe and naked in the padded chair, watching the flow of particles with a part of her senses and seeing New World pass swiftly and looking off on a tangent to sight Outworld and, thrilled, remembering the sweetness of it on the viewers and knowing that she’d be there soon, not merely passing it on the fury of a solar storm, but there, on its surface.

  Three days later, when the wind speed had dropped to a mere one million miles per hour, lonely in the outback, past the orbit of Outworld and nearing the area of Five, where the strange male builder, Bertt, chose to set up his flyer works in the eternal cold, she was feeding on concentrated fuplee fruit and feeling mournful, for soon the wild ride

  would cease to be free and easy, and the major portion of her holiday would be spent in beating back, laboriously and with a tedious slowness, toward New World and Haven. Yet that in i
tself was pleasure, the ultimate challenge. Only a Class VI could do it. Only a Corleu VI, female built, could do it in the time allotted to her.

  Now there was time, full time, boring time, time to be devoted to study of her techniques and time to merely sit, viewer on full magnification, and look at the lights of God, for out here they seemed so near. Like a broad band of arcs, they covered the viewer, sharp outlines undistorted by atmosphere. And she could see the titanic joining of two globular clusters on the angle of the far rim, thick with stars in collision, the single loudest object in the near sky.

  She herself, in Rim Star, had moved faster than the stars.

  There were times, in contemplation, when she fought against the traditional sense of doom. Galactic distances are not compatible with the life-span of even an Artonuee female, and it was, in a sense, strange to know the racial feeling of impending death when generation upon generation would crawl and fly and walk and return and there would be no apparent change in the fires of the night. It was all relative, and the approach of death for the race, at thirty-five thousand miles per second, was a chilling concept unless one related it to time, and then, if one were irresponsible—and, at times, during flight, the female can be irresponsible, witness her flouting of the ironclad rule against intoxicating liquids aboard a flyer—it could be ignored.

  True, determine the ages before the good sun burned and fused, and it seemed futile to carry the load of doom on shapely, winged shoulders. And yet, nagging at her was that racial consciousness, that something, that link.

  All Artonuee being one, riding the single life-force allotted to them—and, perhaps, to the entire galaxy, since all attempts at communication with intelligent races theorized to inhabit other systems had failed— there was the heaviness of knowledge that the beauty would die, that life would cease and be replaced by the fires of God in cold space.

  Thus, with a mercurial change of mood, she saddened and remembered the old mech at Haven, bless him. Old Beafly and his appointment on The World. It came to all. It would come to her and that part of her which was

  aware would sink, be replaced with another awareness, and although there was a link, a feeling of oneness, Miaree as Miaree would cease to be.