Fall of Angels

XVI

THE SUN HAD barely cleared the trees on the eastern side of the sheer drop-off at the base of the meadow when Nylan laid the endurasteel brace and the crowbarlike local blade beside one of Ryba’s Sybran blades. Beneath the blades was a crude quench trough, half-filled with water and the hydraulic oil for which there was really no other use-not for centuries, probably.

Then the engineer walked around the working space outside the base of the unfinished tower construction. Should he consider a dry moat as well? He shook his head. Half the year or more a moat would be a bug-filled mess, and the other half the high snows would render it useless.

“Stop spacing out. Get on with it,” he muttered, turning to the firin cells. The power bank was down to twenty percent,and the system wouldn’t work at levels below twelve. His eyes went to the windmill, which turned in the lighter morning breeze. The cell being charged was over eighty percent. Another day might find it at ninety percent if the wind picked up, if …

Nylan laughed ruefully. Far less than a day of continuous heavy laser usage would discharge one bank of cells, and it would take nearly half a local season to recharge the individual cells in just one of the four banks they had brought down from the Winterlance. The more he tightened the beam and the shorter the energy pulse, though, the less the effective power drain, and that meant some things were less power-intensive. Darkness knew he’d better find less power-intensive ways to use the laser.

With a little more than half the stone for the tower cut, he’d exhausted two banks and most of the third. The emergency charger had recharged three cells, but each bank held ten. Still … he had gotten more proficient with managing the laser’s power flows, and each row of stones took a shade less power. Also, the cut edges and leftover chunks could be used, perhaps for the less exposed inside walls.

Terwhit … terwhit. The call of one of the birds-a green and brown scavenger-drifted across the high meadow from beyond the field, along with the smoke from the small cook fire.

The engineer studied the curves of the Sybran blade again, with his eyes, senses, and fingers, frowning as his senses touched a slight imperfection in the hilt. Then he grinned. Who was he deceiving? He was no bladesmith, just a dumb engineer trying to figure out how to counterfeit a workable sword while no one was around to second-guess him if his idea didn’t work-using questionable techniques in an even more questionable environment.

Terwhit. With a rustle of feathers, the small greenishbrown bird flitted from a twisted pine in the higher rocks behind the partly built tower toward the firs in the lower southwest corner of the high meadow.

Nylan ran his fingers over the Sybran blade again, thenpicked up the endurasteel brace he had unbolted from one of the landers. Again, he forced himself to feel the metal. It also had several imperfections hidden from sight-Heavenbased quality control or not.

Finally, he powered up the firin cell bank, pulled on the goggles and the gauntlets, and picked up the heavy brace. After readjusting the laser, he pulsed the beam, slowly cutting along what felt like the grain of the metal. He pursed his lips, considering the apparent idiocy of what he did-guiding a laser with a sense of feel he could not even define to create an antique blade out of a brace from a high-tech spaceship lander.

The heavy tinted goggles protected his eyes, although he realized that he wasn’t using his vision, but that sense of feel, a sense that somehow seemed to break everything into degrees of something. What that something was and how he would categorize it were more questions he couldn’t answer.

He didn’t try, instead releasing the power stud and letting his senses check the cut and the metal-which felt rough, almost disordered.

With another deep breath, he flicked on the laser and spread the beam for a wider heat flow, using his senses and the power from the laser to shape and order the edge of the blade, trying to replicate something like the feel of the Sybran blade.

After the second pass, he unpowered the laser and pushed back the goggles, wiping his forehead. Then he bent and picked up the plastic cup, swallowed the last of the water in it, and set the empty cup back on the ground beside the cell bank where the power cable wouldn’t hit it.

One of the marines-Istril-sat atop one of the rocky ledges and watched as he readjusted the goggles and studied the model blade again.

Once more, he picked up the metal that had been a brace and triggered the laser, shifting his grip, and trying to ensure that his gauntlets were well away from the ordered line of powered chaos emanating from the powerhead.

After his first rough effort at shaping the blade, he turned to the curved hand guards and tang. As he shaped the metal, he tried to smooth it, just as he once had smoothed power fluxes through the Winterlance’s neuronet. When the rough shape was completed, he unpowered the laser and checked the cells-a drop of less than one percent so far. Not too bad for a first try.

He pushed back the goggles and blotted the area around his eyes, then studied the blank blade. Even with one rough cut, the shape looked better than the local metal crowbars.

He could feel Istril’s eyes on him, but he did not look toward the rocks. The smoke from the cook fire was more pronounced, as was the hum of people talking. He did not look toward the landers, either. Instead, he inhaled, then exhaled deeply and replaced the goggles and lifted the laser.

Trying not to feel like an idiot, he triggered the laser and continued to use his mental netlike sense and the power of the laser to work the metal, almost to smooth the grains into an ordered pattern while trying to create the equivalent of a razor edge on both sides of the blade.

By the time he finished with the laser, not that long it seemed, sweat poured down his forehead, out and around the goggles, and his knees trembled. Done with the laser, he set the powerhead down and waited as the metal cooled toward the color of straw.

The oil-and-water mixture in the crude trough felt right, but whether it was … time would tell. Using the modified space gauntlets, he swirled the mixture in the trough and eased the blade into it, letting his new sense guide the tempering-or retempering. Then he laid the blade on the sheltered sunny side of the black boulder where it would complete cooling more slowly.

He set aside the goggles and checked the power meters-a drop of one percent, maybe a little more. He nodded. He could make something that looked like a blade, but was it any good?

As he saw Ryba’s broad-shouldered figure striding grimlytoward him, he offered himself a smile. He’d get one opinion all right-and soon.

“Why did you take my blade? It had to be you. No one else would-”

Nylan held up a hand to stop her. “I’m guilty. I didn’t hurt it. I needed a model, and I didn’t want to feel like a fool.”

“Model for what?”

His eyes turned toward the flat rock where his effort rested.

“Darkness! How did you do that?”

“Art, laser, dumb luck-all of the above. Don’t touch it; it’s still hot enough to burn your skin, and I don’t know if it will work. It looks right; it feels right, but I’m no swordsman. It could shatter the minute it’s used. I don’t think so, but it could.”

Ryba stepped up to the blade and looked down at the slight curves of the deep black metal. “It’s beautiful.”

“Technology helps,” Nylan admitted. “But I don’t know if it will even work. It could break apart at the first blow.”

“I don’t think it will.” Ryba looked at him. “It looks like it will last forever.”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like. It’s how it feels and lasts.”

She studied the blade again. “I need to teach you more about using blades. It would be a shame for someone who can create this not to be able to use it well.”

“You don’t even know if it’s right.”

Ryba’s dark green eyes met his. “About some things, I can tell.”

Nylan shrugged.

“How many of these can you make?”

“Over time, enough for everyone, and probably a few more. I’d guess a little less than a two-percent charge on the bank for each. But I don’t want to do that many until we’ve got enough stone for the tower.”

“We need both.”

“It will take more than half a season with the portable generator to fully charge a whole bank of cells. We’ve gonethrough nearly three banks, and that only leaves one that’s completely full. We’ll probably have the first recharged before we finish the tower. I haven’t done the math, but I could probably forge ten blades on a depleted bank if I recharged two cells. But I need a base load of twenty percent for stone-cutting.”

“You’ve got piles of cut stone here,” pointed out Ryba.

“It’s not enough.” He shrugged. “Right now, the mortar’s the problem, but I think I’ve got that set.”

“That’s a terrible pun.”

“Didn’t mean it that way.”

The former captain looked at the smooth and sheer black stone wall that rose nearly twice her height, then at the square door frame whose base stood nearly her height above the visible base of the tower. “You’re building a demon-damned monument.”

“Why are you letting me? Could it be that I’m right?”

Ryba laughed. “The others look at this, and they all see that it can be done, and that we’re here to stay. Nothing I say is as effective as your killing yourself. They all see how you drive yourself. But is everything that you’ve planned really necessary?”

Nylan pointed to Freyja-the ice-needle peak that towered above the unfinished tower, above the other mountains. “You can tell from the ice on those peaks that the winter is as cold, if not colder, than northern Sybra. Also, a tower isn’t enough. We need stables, and next year, we’ll need more storehouses, and workrooms for all the crafts we’ll need to develop, and we’ll have to defend them all. I’ll end up cannibalizing the landers for metal and everything else, because that’s easier than trying to develop iron-working from scratch or than trading for it. Once we run through the plunder, what can we use to buy goods? Or food? I certainly haven’t seen traders galloping to find us. Also, there’s going to be a gap between when we lose all high technology and when we can master lower technology.”

Ryba looked at the blade. “What gap?”

“It would take me days to forge a blade like that with coalor charcoal and hammers. Maybe longer, and that’s if I knew what to do. That’s if I had an anvil, if I could find iron ore, if …” He snorted. “How long will the emergency generator and the charging system last? Maybe a local year … and it might quit in the next eight-day.”

“Then you’d better do at least a few blades, and others, as you can fit them in. We’re going to need them. I hope not soon, but we will.”

Nylan wiped his forehead. “I’ll try to balance things. Has anyone heard anything about this so-called bandit trader? Can’t we get something from him? Big cook pots, even cutlery?”

“I’m working on a list. What do you think we really need?”

“Some heavy cloth, wool maybe, and something like scissors, to cut it, thread and needles. We’re not equipped for winter. There were-what? — two cold-weather suits in the paks? Any dried or stored food we can buy. What about something like chickens … for eggs? The concentrates might last until mid-winter. Salt. Some of that stuff Gerlich kills could be dried and salted. Oh … I need to figure out how … never mind …”

“What?”

“I’ll use the laser to glaze it. That will make cleaning it easy.”

“What?” repeated Ryba.

“The water reservoir, cistern, whatever you want to call it. I’d like it to be on the second level in the center, but I don’t know if I can work that. I still haven’t quite figured out piping or a reservoir near the head of the spring. We’ll run hidden piping, like a siphon, so we can have some continuous water flow in winter or if we get besieged …”

“You are a pessimist.”

“A realist.”

“Probably,” she admitted. “What if the laser goes?”

“There are two spare powerheads and a spare cable. I can use the weapons head, if I have to, but the power loss is enormous, and that might not work at all. If it goes now, we doit the hard way, and not nearly so well, and people die. If it lasts into winter, then I should have the basics done.”

“Dreamer.”

Nylan grinned ruefully.

“Go get something to eat.” Ryba motioned to Istril, who had edged down the rocks, and who hurried up in response to Ryba’s preemptory gesture. “Istril … would you watch this equipment while the engineer eats? Don’t touch it, and don’t let anyone else, either.” Ryba pointed to the blade that Nylan had used as a guide. “Use that if you have to.”

“Yes, ser.” Istril’s eyes flickered to the black blade on the stone. “You made … that … ser?”

“I tried,” conceded Nylan.

“It’s beautiful … sometime … could you forge me one?”

“Istril should get one of the first ones.”

Nylan sighed and nodded at the slight silver-haired marine. “It’s cool now. Pick it up and see if it’s half as good as it looks.”

“You mean it?”

Ryba and Nylan nodded.

Istril touched the hilt-designed to be wrapped in leather-and slowly lifted the blade. She stepped back and lowered it, then smiled.

“Is it tough enough?” Nylan asked. “Bend it or something.”

Ryba lifted her blade. “Just blade to blade.”

Nylan watched as they fenced, the silvery metal of the Sybran blade glittering against the black of his.

After a time, they both lowered their weapons, and Ryba wiped her forehead. A moment later, so did Istril.

“I think it might be better than mine,” said Ryba, “at least in blade work. It might not be balanced right for throwing.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Istril.

Ryba looked at Nylan.

He nodded at Istril. “It’s not perfect, but you may have it. The hilt needs to be wrapped.”

“It’s too good for me.”

“Then you’ll have to get better for it,” said Ryba. “In returnfor the blade, you’ll have to teach the engineer how to use one.”

“Can I start now?”

“After I eat, and only for a little,” said Nylan. “We’ve still got a tower to build.”