QUEEN of the IRON SANDS

A Serial Adventure

by

SCOTT LYNCH

Copyright: Scott Lynch 2012

By permission of the author, this file may be freely copied and distributed

for the express reading pleasure of anyone wishing to sample the novel.

This is a test edition, the first eBook I have ever created.

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Book I

BLUEWORLDER

Heroing is one of the shortest-lived professions there is.

-Will Rogers

“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of…”

-From “High Flight,” by John Gillespie Magee

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Chapter 1

My Father Brought the Sky Home

I suppose you could say I left the planet Earth for the first time in 1928, just after my eighth birthday, and for the last time in 1950, just before my thirtieth.

Yet isn’t that one hell of a presumption on my part, dear reader— the notion that there’s ever going to be a you to say anything at all about me! This isn’t even paper I’m writing on, in my sanctuary half a mile above the red desert, and as far as I know I’m still the only living creature on this planet to whom the English alphabet is anything but nonsense squiggles.

Still I find myself determined to leave some sort of record of all the terrible and wonderful years I’ve spent here, hundreds of millions of miles from anyone who can read this. Is that vanity?

I suppose I might as well just lay it all out for you, you comforting hypothesis, and we can both make up our minds as I go along.

*****

My name is Violet Elizabeth DeVere, and I was born in Abilene, Texas at the tail end of a dry, windy September in 1920. That town wasn’t done settling, back then. It was still a coming-and-going sort of place, and like currents in a river you had cattle men, oil men, farmers in and out of luck, drifters, grifters, preachers, and Great War vets chasing what was left of their hopes in life. And then you had my father, who was above it all.

I mean that literally. He was anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand feet above it all. Howard DeVere built his first airplane from a kit in 1914, when nobody really knew what to do with the things. By 1922, when he bought a sky-worn Curtiss Jenny biplane from Uncle Sam, folks had grown some better notions. Dad made crop dusting his game. The concept was even newer than I was. Back and forth he flew, low enough to wipe his boots on tree-tops, bombing fields and orchards with gray-white streamers of lead arsenate powder. He kept that stuff in a hopper that he half-assed out of some old tin sheets and bolted into his Jenny in place of the front seat.

Dad flew the mail, too, starting in the last couple of years before the Depression came on like a bad dream. Once the crops had drank all the poison dust they’d need for the year, he’d migrate east to Dallas for a week or two at a time, and work the express route to Chicago as a contract pilot. That route was a half-day by air with seven or eight stops along the way, and it must have been in Chicago, in the fight against boredom during his layovers, that he first picked up our shared vice. The little nudge from fate that doomed your humble narrator to a life in the air, and to this exile.

*****

They say Texas breeds big men, but dad was never big. In my eyes, nobody who wore a leather flight jacket needed to be big. Dad knew I loved that thing so much that he always wore it when he came home, even if the air was so hot you could see it rippling like a snake just above the ground. He’d bail straight out of it afterward, but never until I got my hug.

Now, it wasn’t quite that hot, that autumn of 1928 when mom and I met him at the sod landing strip that passed for the town’s air terminal. It was warm and breezy, and dad picked me up and held me against that sun-cracked leather jacket, and it smelled like sweat and engine oil and pipe smoke.

That smell was and always will be the smell of the sky, to me. Whenever my dad came down out of the air, he brought the sky home with him.

That time, he brought something else, too.

“Vee,” he said, that being his preferred name for me, one mom never used, “I know I don’t need to ask whether you’ve been behaving while I’ve been off fitting blocks into the pyramids with the Pharaoh’s other slaves.”

“No, you don’t,” I said.

“Right. I know you’ve been an ornery little pain in the behind, don’t I?”

“Oh, you liar!” I punched him a couple times, the sort of punches that only eight-year-old fists can deliver as tokens of deep affection.

“Well, I thought you and your mother might appreciate it if we gave you something to occupy that busy little head of yours.” As he spoke, he reached into his jacket and pulled that something out. “Sorry I missed your birthday, Vee.”

And that’s how I wound up owning a slightly folded, heavily-thumbed copy of the August, 1928 issue of Amazing Stories.

*****

Let me tell you about the cover.

Imagine a green lawn, in front of a well-maintained garage and a prosperous-looking house on a wooded hill. A perfectly ordinary lawn, with a perfectly ordinary man and woman on it, waving upward… at a man hanging suspended in mid-air by the action of the bizarre electrical devices he wears on his belt and his backpack. And make no mistake, he is not falling, nor is he merely hovering cautiously. He is outstretched like an athlete, lying upon the air, swimming in it, and his expression is one of pure, easy pleasure.

He is defying gravity almost literally by the seat of his pants.

*****

I might have been inclined, by the accident of my birth, to a life spent approving of airplanes. But the cover of that magazine, from the moment I set eyes on it, drove me without rest toward the pilot’s seat. I never spared an instant for second thoughts. That breezy day in 1928, my feet forgot the ground they were standing on, and I swore that as soon as I had legs long enough to reach a rudder pedal, I would own the sky.

I’d been a reader before then, of course, but I tore that magazine nearly to pieces with the number of times I devoured it front to back. The flying man from the cover was the hero of a story called “The Skylark of Space,” the work of a certain E.E. Smith and Lee Hawkins Garby.

I made my own flying belt and backpack the day after dad came home. I had a pair of badly sprained ankles the day after that, earned by leaping from one of the nooks in the gabled roof. It turned out that canvas, baling wire, and cardboard were much less effective at nullifying gravity than the intra-atomic energy of the unknown metal X!

“Good Lord, Vee,” said dad as I lay in bed recuperating that night. He turned my disappointing prototype flying belt over and over in his hands. “You never did anything so damn foolish since before you had teeth. Are you gonna make me regret bringing that magazine home for you?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“So no more jumping off the roof?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said, as slyly as an eight-year-old could.

“A deal? I ought to pound a peg into the front yard and chain you down! How’s that for a deal?”

“That magazine advertises subscriptions.”

“Does it really…” he said, very slowly, a man fully realizing that an extortion attempt was about to come down the pipe.

“Please, daddy, I’ll behave like you wouldn’t believe!”

“I’m already having trouble believing your behavior,” he sighed. “You got some cheek, honey. First you try to kill yourself, then you try to wrangle a new library out of it. Let’s you and me have an understanding.”

“What’s that?”

“I know at least a couple genuine ways to fly, and a cloth belt full of imaginary metal ain’t one of them.”

“I got that figured out. I promise.”

“Then you be sensible, once those ankles of yours heal up. You’d better shame the angels, for at least a month or two. Then we’ll see about your subscription. Maybe.”

Well, I’m not sure the angels felt the heat of any competition, but I certainly never risked my bones testing home-built anti-gravity devices again.

And so it came in the mail, a reward for my forbearance, a second issue of Amazing Stories, proudly emblazoned along the spine with the magical word SCIENTIFICTION. This one featured a cover illustration of a metal man wrestling a bloodthirsty lion, just about to break the poor thing’s neck. And the contents! Something about a trip to the moon… a voyage across space… a menace from Mars… and more “Skylark!”

“Hold up, Vee,” said dad as I made a beeline for my room, fresh pulp clutched to the front of my dress. I meekly handed over my new fascination. Dad paged through it for a few moments, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe stem, before passing it back.

“Just mind yourself,” he said. “If I get word that you’re climbing on the neighborhood cats and dogs and trying to tear their heads off, you’ll think we named you Violet because of the color of your behind after I get done spanking you.”

“Yessir.”

“And Vee?”

“Yessir?”

“When you finish that, would you leave it out for a few days so I can get a fair crack at it, too?”

*****

The Depression hit just a year after that, and it knocked a lot of folks around Abilene pretty hard. We weathered it by dumb luck. While there weren’t as many crops that needed dusting, a lot of the other local applicators hit their bottom dollar before dad did. He inherited their slices of the shrunken pie, and between that and the Dallas-Chicago route we kept above water. People didn’t stop needing to mail things.

Dad actually managed to buy a larger house, a mostly-finished thing up in the hills outside the city proper. It had asphalt roof shingles and a big round porch. My parents got a deal on it because all the original builder’s money had vanished overnight, and the original builder quickly followed suit. Old Crooked House, we called it, on account of the way it creaked in high winds, and because none of dad’s repairs were ever going to win any ribbons for beauty at the county fair. Dad was a mechanic, not a carpenter.

I had some good years there. New clothes were rare, and none of us were in much danger of gaining weight, but dad and I did have our shared indulgence, that stream of Amazings that never stopped coming, plus the occasional Air Wonder Stories or Zeppelin Stories or Weird Tales. About the latter, we actually argued from time to time. Dad was fond of H.P. Lovecraft, while I adamantly was not. I wanted adventures where the heroes won the day with daring and scientific miracles, not stories where they ran into the night crapping their pants because of monsters that were just too awful to contemplate.

“Well, Vee, that’s probably because you’ve never had to pay income taxes,” said dad sagely, when I tried to explain my grand theories of literature one morning at breakfast.

At least we could both agree that Robert E. Howard was pretty swell. Conan the Cimmerian would pay his income taxes, all right— he’d pay ’em in crushed skulls. There was no pants-crapping when that fellow was around, unless you were on the wrong team.

Dad and I shared something else, but I would never call that an indulgence. No, dear reader, something so absolutely vital was no indulgence for either of us. I flew with him for the very first time in the summer of 1930, in a borrowed plane, since I was too big to share dad’s seat and he would have killed anyone dumb enough to suggest that his little girl tuck herself into the crop-dust bin on his old Jenny.

By 1933 that Jenny was gone. “Airframes are like horses,” dad once told me. “A few years hard riding is all you’re meant to get out of ’em.” He scored a lucky deal on a New Standard D-25 biplane, a ship built to haul four people rather than the usual two. This meant he could weld in a dusting hopper and still have room for eighty pounds of yours truly (though never while he was actually dusting— I wasn’t allowed near that stuff, on or off the ground). I learned the air in that D-25, making wide lazy loops above the green fields, the brown scrublands, and the slate gray of Lake Fort Phantom.

I flew solo for the first time just after I turned fifteen. Dad was a nervous dot pacing on the grass of the Abilene Air Terminal, which had been expanded to a triangle of sod strips. I orbited that triangle at various heights and speeds for half an hour, always mindful of that beloved dot, but more entranced than ever by the bright blue world around me. This wasn’t SCIENTIFICTION; this could be my life, my everyday life. The whole sky for an office!

In January, 1937, dad and I flew east to Fort Worth, the closest place I could take both the written test and the flight test for my private pilot’s license. My little blue pilot’s log noted “45 hrs 18 mins dual instruction / 16 hrs 45 mins solo time,” and was countersigned by my father.

Two weeks later I found a letter in the mailbox, addressed to me from the Department of Commerce, Aeronautics Branch, Washington, D.C.

DEAR MADAM:

You have completed the tests and examinations required by the Air Commerce Regulations for a Private Pilot’s License.

Out of the envelope fell a little white card, proof that I had been awarded Private Pilot’s License #24,268.

Two days after I received that card, my mother went into Abilene to play bridge. A slobbering drunk behind the wheel of a 1934 Buick Sport Coupe caught her as she was crossing a street; a moment later he slammed into a tree and went through the windshield. They both died more or less instantly.

*****

I haven’t said much about my mother, Evelyn Morgan DeVere. I don’t mean that as an unkindness to her. It’s more of a kindness to myself— some things you just try not to dwell on, even with so many years to insulate you from the live current of your grief.

I loved my mother, but I wasn’t in her confidence the same way I was in dad’s. She was a strange fit with the pair of us. She was neither enthusiastic nor uneasy about dad’s career. Howard could have been a soil chemist or an insurance adjustor or a railroad detective; it was all the same to her as long as the roof didn’t leak. She did typing from time to time when there was work available in town, and she kept most of the books for DeVere General Aviation Services, dad’s grandiose name for his little empire of the air.

Mom loved cards and radio programs; she wasn’t a reader and she didn’t understand a speck of what dad and I saw in our pulps. She’d sip her coffee at the kitchen table, bemused and neutral, while dad and I would verbally fence 3over how Solomon Kane might have handled the Fungi from Yuggoth. She was like an anthropologist silently observing a little tribe of Texas madmen, forever unable to decipher their private crazy-talk.

She didn’t shape me like dad did, or share what dad and I shared, but what mom did was just as important. She allowed me to happen. She was as mild in judgment as she was in everything else, and it was no great shame to her if her daughter wanted to bury her nose in strange magazines, wear trousers as often as skirts, or spend long days helping dad pull apart a malfunctioning radial engine. She never tried to bury me in etiquette and parlor games and the labyrinths of fashion, things that might have stuck me to the ground as effectively as lead weights.

Dad lit the fires, but mom let them burn.

*****

It was a month after the funeral before dad would take to the air again. I started flying for pay in his place, though I hadn’t taken the exam for a commercial license yet. Some things were winked at, back in those days. I wasn’t dusting at first, but I did a photography job, then ran some cargo and an urgent passenger transport. While dad was grounded in mourning, I went into the air to forget, and wished I could stay there, the higher up the better.

Old Crooked House was quiet as hell with just the two of us. It must have been half a year before I even heard dad laugh again. Lines grew on his face and he lost weight that wasn’t meant to be lost. Age caught up with him all at once, like it had jumped him in an alley one night and beat him hard for all of the years he’d been ducking it.

Dad put on a brave act for me, but he never truly recovered from mom’s death. It was Evelyn or nothing for him, and just a few years later he had serious problems of his own.

*****

The world got nervous in those last years before the big war. Our pulps reflected it; their pages were thick with atomic explosives and exotic poison gases, war-rockets and mechanized terrors. Readers used the letter columns for tedious arguments over the usefulness of everything from dreadnaughts to bomber aircraft. I had lived just long enough to witness the first sea-change in the fiction I loved. Bob Howard and H. P. Lovecraft were both dead, and Hugo Gernsback was no longer publishing SCIENTIFICTION.

Real scientifiction was about to be hurled forth from gun barrels and airfields and torpedo tubes all over the world.

I had escaped from high school, and was was doing a two-step with some vague plans to attend the University of Texas. However, DeVere General Aviation Services ate up more and more of my time as dad’s heartbreak grew into real physical issues. His hands started to shake, and flaky lesions appeared on his arms and legs. The doctors told us that his devil-may-care early years of aerial application had at last borne poison fruit.

Though we were far more cautious with our chemicals by the time I finally learned the art of dusting, that caution came too late for dad. In 1939, I flew fifty percent of our collective air hours. In 1940, I was up to eighty percent, and dad was no longer handling the really tricky stuff at all.

*****

On December 7, 1941, the Empire of Japan bombed the hell out of the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor. East to west, pole to pole, the world was all-in for the big fight.

Rationing took a few months to really kick in, but when it did DeVere General Aviation Services had to be hung up in the closet. We had some money in the bank, but avgas was suddenly more precious than rubies. The clamp came down hard on most civilian flying, “for the duration.”

Every man in the county who didn’t have flat arches ran off to enlist in something. Every pilot who could tell the difference between the horizon and his own ass was suddenly a hot commodity, unless that pilot was a she.

I spent most of 1942 in an angry fit. I was mad at the Japanese, mad at the Nazis, mad at the doctors who couldn’t do anything for dad. I was maddest of all, full-throttle pissed off, at the fact that it seemed like any clod who could work a slide rule without cutting his fingers off was deemed fit for aerial training by the Army Air Forces or the Navy. There I was with eight hundred hours in the cockpit, completely ignored. A new Army airfield was being scraped out of the plains with desperate speed just west of town, but I felt like every beau at the dance had suddenly run off, leaving me standing alone in the middle of an empty floor.

It turned out I wasn’t the only one.

*****

There were rumors about programs for women flyers by mid-1942, plans with capital-A words like “Auxiliary” and “Alternate” in their titles. There were too damn many half-starts and missed opportunities, but niche by niche and flight by flight we started to claw our way into jobs that I felt we had already proven our right to.

The war was on in deadly earnest, and it seemed intolerable to me that I should spend it glued to the ground.

When the Japanese roared in over Oahu, the British had already been using women to handle transport and ferry missions for some time. Anything they could do to free their men up for combat flying, they did. The only real barrier England still had against a German invasion was built ten thousand feet in the air.

There was a team of British and American women delivering aircraft across the Atlantic— I heard about them, but had no strings I could tug to get involved. At first they were barely allowed to handle trainers, but by the middle of the war they were supposedly saddling up anything with wings. Closer to home, there was also a group of women working under private contracts to ferry new planes, still warm from the assembly lines, to the AAF bases where they would be manned and geared for fighting. Again it was a matter of connections, and again I had none.

I finally got my big chance in late 1942, when two distinct new opportunities for female pilots opened up. The first was Nancy Harkness Love’s Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Service. It was a hand-picked cadre of about thirty women, and never got any bigger. Stop me if you’ve heard this before, dear reader, but your Texas girl had no cards she could play to get herself through that door.

No, I hitched my wagon to something called the Women’s Flying Training Detachment, which was the brain-child of another famous aviatrix, Jackie Cochran. I later heard that about 25,000 women applied to the WFTD waiting list, but most of them were bounced immediately for lack of flight hours. Remember what I said earlier about clods barely capable of working a slipstick without causing grievous bodily injury? Well, that was fine for men. Uncle Sam would hold your face against the grindstone until you sprouted a pair of silver wings. Women, on the other hand, had to have valid commercial licenses and a couple hundred hours in the air. Those requirements eased slightly as the war went on, but they were never entirely lifted.

I remember the day I sat in the living room, filling out the paperwork for my application, while dad half-dozed and watched from his favorite armchair. We never admitted it out loud, but his flying days were done. His skin was graying, his hair was coming out, and he needed a cane to get from his bedroom to the water closet. He was forty-eight and looked seventy.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” I asked.

“Vee,” he said, his voice trembling, “I checked you out in blind-flying and stall recovery, not god-damned stenography. You know as well as I do this ain’t no choice.”

“I didn’t mean my flying,” I said, “I meant my leaving you on your own, with your—”

“My what, my delicate condition?” He did a fair impression of a hearty laugh. “Violet Elizabeth, I do not need my napkin tucked in for me just yet, or my ass wiped. Anyhow, if you got busy elsewhere, I might have time to square us on that pile of magazines you’ve been treating as a private reserve.”

Just about the only good news in the messy months right after Pearl Harbor was that the pulps kept coming. The brains behind them found jobs in war bureaus and shipyards and munitions factories, but they were as much in thrall to their typewriters as ever. Amazing had gone stale, but that was no loss when there was something as juicy as Astounding Science Fiction to pick up the slack, and I read every issue.

Dad tried to keep up, but his vision and his decaying concentration were in conspiracy against his pleasure. Mostly he used the magazines to sort of decorate himself when he fell asleep, as though I might be convinced things were the same as ever. I knew better.

*****

My licenses and my long hours in our family D-25 skipped my application past the first set of obstacles; one of Jackie Cochran’s personal assistants came to town for an interview just two weeks after I sent my papers off. I copped early to the fact that the interviewer was looking for an excuse to blackball me as some sort of hellcat or trouble magnet; fortunately, I’d decided to dress and act as though I was applying for a job as a receptionist at a nunnery. “Shame the angels,” my dad had once told me, and surely this was a prize as much worth behaving for as that precious subscription all those years before.

Well, they fell for it.

I was too late to be accepted into the very first pack of WFTD girls. After passing my AAF physical, I ultimately found myself assigned to the fourth wave of hopefuls, class 43-W-4. My new home would be a place called Avenger Field, near Sweetwater, not fifty miles west of where I sat in Old Crooked House on the day I opened my acceptance letter and final instructions.

Before the war, I could have hopped it in a plane and been there in half an hour, as easily and thoughtlessly as someone else might have made a telephone call. But those days were put away like an old toy. I stood in line for a train ticket like everyone else.

I left home with the sunrise on March 4, 1943. I was on my way to learn the ropes of some of the hottest aircraft in the world, pursuit planes and high-altitude bombers that could take me up to where the blue met the black, like ships in the stories I had always treasured. But I was en route to those wonders on a rusting iron track, behind an engine that had been doing business when Mark Twain was still a going concern, and the brown Texas hills outside my window rolled by so slow, so slow.

Chapter 2

The Red Cloud Over Texas

I hadn’t meant to spill so many of those particulars, about my childhood and my parents and all those marvelous magazines, but this thing is sort of out of my control already. Like a plane with a heavy stick and a mind of its own, misbehaving and jerking me all over the sky. I remember too much.

I remember smoking, for example.

It’s been fifteen years since I last had a tobacco cigarette, and God Almighty, I could use one now. My body chemistry doesn’t comprenez the local stuff; I might as well be smoking wool.

Now that I’m dredging up this story the memory of smoke burns in my hands and lips and lungs. I smoked like a locomotive when I was writing, flicking ashes into the C-Ration can I kept beside my typewriter.

A typewriter! Another casualty of exile. What a lamentable loss that old machine was, my glossy black 1936 Royal DeLuxe with a rebellious ’w’ key. All those post-war days I spent in Old Crooked House, waiting for paying work to ring the telephone, staring at a blank white sheet of paper and trying to dream up science fiction stories that wouldn’t use too many ’w’ words…

And smoking.

I am going to drive myself mad if I keep dwelling on that last, lost pack of Chesterfields I had tucked inside my jacket the afternoon I vanished from the air over Texas and wound up here.

*****

Step back to 1943, to class 43-W-4.

WASPs, they called us. Eventually.

In late 1943, after I’d graduated, the WAFS and the WFTD were slammed together into one glamorous sandwich. We handed in our competing acronyms and became Women’s Airforce Service Pilots, WASPs, once and for all.

Now, I’m heaping more assumptions on your head, imaginary reader. I’m assuming that you’d even heard of us before I started unrolling all of this. When the WASPs were deactivated in 1944, the official records of our service were sealed, classified, and thrown into the deepest dungeon in the government archives, down there in the dark with George Washington’s false teeth and the secret formula for Coca-Cola.

Yes, classified, even though we’d been recruited with the equivalent of a public ad campaign. We were posted to a hundred different duty bases, and publicized or vilified in the national papers for nearly two years! We weren’t parachuting spies into the heart of the Third Reich, we were flying domestic transport missions in aircraft any school kid could identify at a glance. Classifying our work made as much sense as classifying the fact that cats have fuzzy asses.

But then, there were a lot of things about the WASPs that are difficult to understand.

For starters, we were never an official military service, although we trained to military standards, to fly military aircraft, in the military fashion and in constant partnership with military men, in the middle of the biggest war in history. We were technically civilian contractors, and every one of us that arrived at Avenger Field to begin her WASP career paid her own way to get there, and would go on paying for room and board out of the salary she received.

In fact, just about the only things we didn’t pay for in my first few months of training were our jackets, goggles, and parachutes. In the barracks at night, we joked that our oxygen masks would be coin-operated.

Aviation wasn’t a poor woman’s game in those days, and an awful lot of us took pay cuts for the sake of doing our part. I don’t mean to paint myself with that brush, mind you. With dad’s plane in the hangar for the duration, I was breaking even on the deal. However, a few of the gals in my class had set aside incomes or inheritances that made me feel dizzy when I found out about them.

Other than the little indignities like room and board, what did it really mean, not having been militarized? It’s hard to describe without sounding selfish, since life was damned hard all over during the war. Four hundred thousand Americans came home in caskets, or not at all.

Every service had its official women’s auxiliary, even the Coast Guard, and their entitlements were more or less the same as any man in that service. A WAC or a WAVE or a SPAR that dropped dead on duty could receive a flag-draped casket and an honor guard, even if her duty was filing papers at an office in Philadelphia.

A WASP that lost her life in the course of her duties- flying high-speed aircraft across the United States, towing gunnery targets for live fire exercises, safety-testing rebuilt airframes (now there was a roll of the old dice!)- got nothing from Uncle Sam. She wasn’t merely entitled to nothing, she got nothing.

I know. I was there when we literally passed a hat to collect the money needed to ship a dead WASP back to her family, so they could even have the body in hand to bury it on their own dime. That was a member of my class, Jane Champlin, killed in a night-flying accident shortly before graduation.

Jane had quit her job when she’d heard about the WFTD, and desperately crammed in the flight hours she needed to jump her application over the mountain of rejects. Then she blew her bank account on corrective sinus surgery so she could pass the Army Air Force physical. She’d done all that with a lightness in her heart, for the sake of her chance to serve. She was the first of thirty-eight WASPs to die in the air.

For that she got no men in uniform to send her on her way, no flag on the coffin, no benefits to her family, no service markers on her tombstone or notice in the newspaper. That’s what not being militarized meant. That tiny portion of honor which should have been alloted to us at the grave, if nowhere else at all, was held back like some piece of flying equipment our instructors had neglected to check us out on.

*****

I never knew that I could scrawl furiously. Bang keys in anger, sure, but I just about murdered my Martian scribing table a moment ago, wielding this little electric pen like a scalpel. I am still bitter, after all these years. It’s back like the ghost of smoke in my mouth.

Terrible things happen in war. Lies, treachery, death. You expect evil from the enemy, but you never expect terrible things from your friends, from your brothers, from men that you love and look up to.

When millions of men put on uniforms, millions of women stepped forward to take their places at the jobs they’d left behind. We built the ships and planes, we cleaned the furnaces, we packed the ammunition, we ran the trains, and we were mostly welcomed for it. Those of us flying aircraft were the tiniest droplet on the leading edge of one hell of a wave.

After the war, that wave receded. Those millions of men wanted to shed their uniforms and get their old jobs back, and God, I don’t blame them. I don’t know who to blame.

In 1948, I was at the Abilene air terminal, unwinding after a flight, paging through some magazines that had blown into the hangar like tumbleweeds. In one of them I found an article advising industrial managers on how to handle female employees, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or load a shotgun. There I was, leaning against the fuselage of a plane I’d just brought down from the edge of a thunderstorm, listening to the pop and creak of the still-cooling engine, reading a piece of tripe about my lack of initiative, my inability to handle stress, my need for constant supervision, and my preoccupation with lipstick.

Things hadn’t gone back to ’normal’ after the war. There’d been a kickback, an ugly, underhanded sort of thing, and it was everywhere. When the guns were booming we were crucial partners, trusted and encouraged. Just a few years later we were swept back to the kitchens and cosmetic counters, our competence forgotten.

Maybe things are better for you, imaginary reader, in your where and when. I can only hope so. But what happened to women in general after the war was more or less what happened to the WASPs while the bullets were still flying.

*****

Was it all bad? Was it all bitter? Oh sweet Jesus, no. We wanted to risk our lives for our country, and we got a roaring carnival of chances. We were desperate to spend as much time as possible flying the planes we loved, using the skills we’d fought so hard to build, and for a short, golden time the Army Air Force worked us like mad.

If I could step into a time machine, and find myself on that train platform in Abilene, on March 4, 1943, knowing what I know now, would I still take the trip? Would I do it all over again?

You’d have to kill me to stop me.

I know any one of the thousand of us that graduated from that program at Avenger Field would say the same. I know the thirty-eight we left behind would say it loudest of all, even if someone told them just how soon they’d be taking their last flights.

*****

So much Violet on Earth… so much Violet in history. "Another damned thick chapter! Always scribble, scribble, scribble! Eh, Ms. DeVere?"

It’s time to set aside Avenger Field. You’ll hear more about the WASPs. You’ll hear more about everything. But let’s skip ahead. I picture my eight-year-old self, impatiently flipping through the early dialogue of some of those old stories, hunting for the bits with death-beams and rockets and monsters.

There are death-beams, all right. And rockets.

And monsters.

*****

I went back home to Abilene in November, 1944. I felt entitled to a good hard sulk, and my dad, far gone as he was, was still too sharp a student of human nature to risk his limbs by trying to yank my little black rain cloud off my head.

Congress had punched the WASP program good and hard, right across the jaw. A bill was sent to the House floor concerning our militarization and incorporation into the AAF. They flung it down and pissed on it. We were deactivated, classified, and shipped home- at our own expense, of course.

I still had a Civil Air Patrol membership, but for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like flying. I wouldn’t have touched a rudder pedal for a thousand dollars, even if one had been available to me.

I was morose for weeks. My only physical act was to look into some long-neglected repairs around the house, in the grand DeVere tradition. If dad had been a mediocre carpenter, I was no doubt the worst since Jesus changed careers.

It took a lot of old friends to finally calm me down. I had no social engagements, few chums in town beyond the air terminal, and very little to do all day except smoke and mope in quiet commiseration with the people that seemed to know me best… A.E. van Vogt, Theodore Sturgeon, C.L. Moore, Cliff Simak, Fritz Leiber, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein…

*****

I don’t think anyone can appreciate catharsis until they’ve been drop-kicked hard enough to need it very badly.

When I was a little girl, my magazines had pointed the way to the sky, and their dry smells of paper and glue had been the sweet bouquet of ambition itself. In my funk as those last few months of the war went by, what they offered was consolation. Not just something to lose myself in for a few hours at a time, but the promise of an entirely new ambition. Those stacks of Astoundings pointed the way to a card table in one corner of my room, where I set a typewriter down next to a pile of old notebooks and pulled up a chair.

With flying off the menu for at least a few months, I set out to become a science fiction writer.

*****

"How’s my ink-stained wretch?" dad croaked one night as I settled his huge old gray wool blanket around him on the couch. Actually, it wasn’t that huge- there was just less of him than ever for it to wrap around. He was always cold, even when the sun was high and bright, and he had that blanket perpetually draped around his shoulders, like a convalescent Superman.

"Not bad," I said, and I think I meant it, for the first time since my return. There were Marines on Iwo Jima at that point, so it must have been February or March, 1945. We listened to the radio constantly. Without it, I think we both realized, Old Crooked House would have been silent as a monastery save for the creaking of the walls and the echoing CLACK CLACK CLACK of my mechanical writing partner.

"I may die of shock," said dad, "depriving several local quacks of the satisfaction of seeing their other predictions come true. You’ve lost some of that vinegar you came home with."

"Maybe," I admitted.

"Oh WASP, where is thy sting?"

"Yanked by act of congress," I said.

"To hell with those idiots," dad wheezed. "Vee, you did more than your duty. Someone’s gonna see that, some day."

"I dunno," I said. "If you’d had a little Victor DeVere, or a Virgil DeVere, I might still be flying somewhere. I’m pretty sure I’d have made it to Officer Candidate School, at least."

"You honestly feel that way?"

"I just don’t know. Haven’t you ever wondered-"

"Violet Elizabeth," he said with real venom, "the Lord gave me a daughter for a reason, and any man who got you and still wished for a boy, sight unseen, wouldn’t deserve a child in the first damn place!"

"I’m sorry, dad, I’m sorry." I put my hand against his clammy cheek and he held it there with his own, mustering about as much strength as I might have, as an eight-year old.

"I oughta slap you so hard you wouldn’t find your face again until next Tuesday," he said, sighing. "But I’m afraid that would interfere with the production of the first Violet DeVere masterpiece."

"At the rate I’m improving, that first masterpiece ought to be ready some time around 1995."

"What’s half a century?" He closed his eyes and shifted slightly away from me on the couch, where he was sleeping most nights, near the comforting murmur of the big cabinet radio. "I’ve had my first fifty years. Waiting out the second should be much easier."

"Can I do anything for you before I go to bed?"

"I did leave a slight chemical disaster in the kitchen, wrestling with that blasphemous instant coffee crap. If you could-"

"I’ll take care of it before it hardens into a museum exhibit. Anything else?"

"Yes. If you stumble across a cure for cancer, you go right ahead and wake me no matter how late it gets."

"Dad! That’s not funny!"

"I’m the one all wrapped up in it, beautiful. It’s funny if I say it is."

*****

The war ended with a big damn burst of Scientifiction in August, 1945.

Dad and I made tentative plans to get DeVere General Aviation Services out of hibernation. He knew he wouldn’t be getting any higher off the ground than a tall set of stairs would take him, but he seemed eager to keep the books.

In September, 1945, I received my first rejection letter from Astounding Science Fiction, sent in exchange for a truly awful piece of writing that neatly plagiarized the worst bits of a dozen stories from the magazine’s 1944 issues. Dad cackled with glee, as though I’d just been awarded a Nobel Prize on a bed of hundred-dollar bills. He made me hunt up an old picture frame, and in short order that rejection was hanging above his couch like a battle trophy.

"That’s all the way from New York City," he said impishly, when I rolled my eyes at his excitement. "They only tell the very best sort of people to go screw themselves, you know!"

In October, I added a second, third, and fourth rejection letter to my collection. In November, I spent a week at the air terminal, taking the heirloom D-25 out of storage, eyeballing every square inch of fuselage and wing and aileron, greasing and oiling and massaging the engine back to smooth-running life. I loved that old thing, but it sure was a quaint ship compared to the aluminum birds I’d flown for the army.

There were rumors that the War Surplus Administration was about to flood the market with cheap service planes and parts. Dad and I agreed that we should restore the D-25 to solid flying condition, then sell it off and try to pick up something newer from the government, preferably something I’d been certified in as a WASP.

on November 17th, 1945, I flew for the first time in a year, under a cool gray sky with a strong wind out of the east. I meant to stay up for half an hour but stretched it to twice that, banking up and up and up, in loose counter-clockwise circles over that triangle of airstrips that turned into a miniature model beneath me. I still needed to use a ration card when I went into town for our groceries, but the choking grip on aviation gas had been loosened a bit, and that afternoon I flew my money’s worth out of that tank of fuel.

When I got back home, chilled but excited from the flight, I found my fifth rejection slip waiting in the mailbox. It was just like all of its fellow harbingers of inadequacy, except for six words scrawled in neat black script in the lower right-hand corner:

Not without promise. Please keep submitting.

"Better push your timetable up," said dad, glowing so brightly I could have hung a lampshade on him and sold him for decent money at Woolworth’s. "No radio for me tonight. I want to fall asleep listening to you pounding on that typewriter like it owes you money."

I did as he asked- I hit those keys until exhaustion fogged up my brain, and I stumbled into bed without leaving my room once more to check on him. So I’ve never been sure just when it happened, but I came down in the morning to find him still and silent on his couch, and already cold.

*****

I had him buried in his old leather flight jacket, in a plot he’d arranged right next to mom. There weren’t many people at the funeral. Pilots and ex-pilots, some of the farmers he’d done work for, old Mr. Derryberry from the air terminal. We had no other family. Whatever tree of DeVeres we’d sprung from, the Abilene branch had narrowed down to a very fine tip.

I went home that afternoon, after he was in the ground, and for once, just once, there wasn’t a breath of wind outside. That house was the quietest goddamn place on earth. I slumped against the radio cabinet and stared at his couch, at the neatly-folded gray blanket, and I cried until I didn’t have any more water to squeeze out.

Then I got up, got my hands on all of dad’s recent business paperwork and files, and dumped the mess on the kitchen table. I made instant coffee, and smoked up a fine haze, and sifted that stuff until the moon had climbed halfway up the black sky outside.

The next day I started making phone calls.

*****

Dad left me full title to DeVere General Aviation Services, of course, along with the family plane and bank account. He hadn’t blown much of his money on treatments for his illness, because there were no treatments.

He left me more than that, though. Two things in particular had a value beyond numbers on a bank ledger.

First was Old Crooked House itself. For all the fresh blemishes we’d installed in our attempts at repairs, it was still a fundamentally sturdy place, and paid for. My own hillside fortress, where I could maintain a comfortable anonymity as far as the world beyond Abilene was concerned.

Not many gals were writing for the science fiction magazines under their own full names. It was easier (unless you had one of those rare double-duty names like Francis) to go by initials. From the glorious isolation of my Texas house, I could write as V.E. DeVere, and there was nobody within a thousand miles who could know any better. I filed papers at the county courthouse to do business by those initials, in the air and in front of my typewriter.

The second thing dad left me was a cushion of good will at the Abilene Air Terminal, with its tight-knit little crew of operators. Everyone had known Howard, and even the dusters he’d more or less put out of business in the 30s hadn’t begrudged him his luck. Nor did they really begrudge me my place. They’d watched me rack up hours in the D-25, had watched me go off to the WFTD with something like real pride. With the earth still fresh over dad’s head, nobody offered so much as an unkind word when I took over as pilot-proprietor of dad’s shop.

I got lucky with the D-25 and managed to sell it to a fellow down in Dallas who was looking to start some sort of air show. I rolled that cash together with dad’s savings and my own, and after a couple months I finally scored a near-mint Taylorcraft L-2 from the War Surplus folks. "Previously owned by a little old Army pilot," said the guy who handled my paperwork, "who swore he only let the Germans shoot at him on Sundays."

Sweet old guy. He didn’t give me any trouble at all. Turned out his niece had been a WASP two classes behind mine.

The L-2 was a liaison bird, one of the ’grasshoppers,’ a no-fuss little redneck sort of airplane. Grasshoppers were built light and sturdy and simple, designed so that anyone with the brains of a standard-issue 12-year-old could yank one out of its crate, get it flying, and patch it up when it came back full of holes. It could take off in any weather short of Judgment Day. In fact, given a stiff wind, it could start at home plate on a baseball diamond and be up in the air before most of the outfield was gone. I had checked out on the L-2 in early 1944, and flown about twenty of them to army bases on the West Coast.

I flew my baby home from the surplus depot in Houston. It took us an hour or two to learn each other’s quirks, but after that we settled into a fine working relationship. The air was as calm as a warm blue lake all the way to Abilene, with one stop for gas and lunch along the way. That was April 26, 1946.

V.E. DeVere’s seventeenth rejection slip was in the mailbox when I got home. I pinned it to the wall and kept typing.

*****

I might as well settle the suspense now and let you know that I did eventually manage to sell something to John Campbell at Astounding. I pulled my sixty-third rejection notice out of the mail on August 8, 1948 and found that it wasn’t a rejection notice after all. I suspect that I had finally exhausted their supply, and they had no choice but to send an acceptance while they were getting more rejections printed. You can find "A Case of Mid-Space Turbulence" in the January, 1949 issue, right next to a decent offering from Asimov and a killer (in more ways than one) story from Lewis Padgett. I can recall that issue almost word-for-word, as vividly as the first few magazines I read as a girl.

Hell, if Old Crooked House is still around and nobody’s moved my things (which might be a stretch, since I’m pretty sure I’ve been legally dead since 1950), you could even go to Abilene and grab a copy. They’d be a bit stiff and yellowed by now, but I owned twenty of them. If they’re still there, help yourself.

*****

I typed most nights in my big empty house and worked most days down at the hangar, trying to put my pre-war connections back together like a mechanic soldering a rusty old piece of electrical gear. Some men didn’t want me working for them, but just enough did to keep me in the black. I dusted, surveyed, and even puddle-jumped the occasional passenger or express cargo.

It sounds lonely, the way I’ve written it, but I struck up correspondences by mail with about a dozen fellow sufferers of science fiction-itis. I had so many messages in bottles washing up on my remote island that I really didn’t feel at all unsociable. Most of my friends were part of a loose confederacy of Texas eccentrics called the Rolling Plains Amateur Press Association, though I even got occasional letters from folks in New York.

I tried not to dwell on what had happened during the war.

In 1948, the Army Air Force cut the apron strings and became its own sovereign service, and someone decided to throw a meatless bone to the former WASPs. I remember finding that big official envelope in my mailbox. It was an invitation to apply to the new Air Force, offering a chance at OCS and a lieutenant’s commission. Flight certification would not be considered, and flying duties were out of the question.

I didn’t even bother writing back.

*****

I wasn’t rich and I wasn’t famous, but I guess you could say I’d achieved a comfortable equilibrium. I got a couple more stories published, I gossiped with my fellow ray-gun nuts, and I spent many, many agreeable hours flitting around the sky.

It was a good enough time, and it lasted until August 19, 1950.

*****

I recall that day, and everything about it, with unnatural clarity. It’s there like a box in my memory, with every item from those last twenty-four hours neatly catalogued. A police evidence file, almost. The contents of the victim’s pockets from the day the All-Sovereign of Mars murdered her former life.

It was a Saturday, bright and hot and muggy. The sun came up mean, throwing punches at anyone it saw scuttling around below. I stayed inside all morning, drinking real coffee, smoking Chesterfields, listening to my papers flutter in the breeze from my little electric fan. I was staring at a note from John Campbell that might just herald the acceptance of my fourth story for Astounding, assuming I was willing to perform the surgery it advised:

"Dear DeVere-

I could please myself immensely by cutting you a check for "Out of the Green Silence," but I think I’d be doing both yourself and the magazine a disservice. It’s nearly there, but nearly there doesn’t cross the finish line. I talked about my feelings on the subject of your quasi-Spartan fish people in our last game of postal tennis, and no miracle has since shifted my resolve. They’re a cheap gimmick resolution for a plot that was otherwise humming along very sweetly; they’d be a cheap gimmick for Asimov and a cheap gimmick for Kuttner and I hope you’ll accept it as a token of prestige when I insist that they’re a cheap gimmick for DeVere. Let us say the ball is now on your side of the net- and when are you going to send me that follow-up to "Cold Windings of the Murthalump?"

Regards,

John"

I was having trouble making a decision. The sky business wasn’t so hot that month, and that dangling paycheck was like a gravitational anomaly, distorting the usual orbit of my thoughts.

Furthermore, I was a bit melancholy. My one fellow female in the Rolling Plains APA, bright, funny little Pat Medford, had just departed Texas for California. She was the only correspondent I ever entrusted with the full meaning of my initials. Pat was bound for Santa Barbara, chasing an advanced degree in something biological. Myrmecology, I think. The study of ants. Her father was famous for it, and she wanted to be the second Dr. Medford in the field. She promised to keep writing, but I knew a quest for a PhD would keep her chained to the proverbial grindstone.

I’ve thought about her a few times in the years I’ve been here. I hope she got that doctorate, and that myrmecology turned out to be the adventure she was hoping for. I suppose I’ll never know.

Anyhow, that brutally hot damp Saturday morning, the ring of the phone was a welcome distraction from my fairly congealed thoughts. I stubbed out the smoldering fragment of my cigarette and grabbed the handset.

"Hate to trouble you, Violet." It was Jubal Abernathy, part-time manager at the air terminal when Mr. Derryberry wasn’t in town. "Would you be averse to going up today?"

"Why Jubal, when I don’t feel like going up you’ll know I’ve accidentally cut off my own head. What gives?"

"There’s a fellow hurt bad up in Paducah, and their doctor’s off somewhere. Doc Soames needs to get up there right fast."

"Mercy mission, huh?" My head lost its fuzz in a hurry. "I’ll come straight down."

"Thanks, Violet, I knew I could count on you. We’ll figure out something for your gas and time-"

"Hey, I didn’t ask!"

"Just looking out for you, Violet. You know me. See you soon."

Paducah was about a hundred and ten miles northwest as the crow flew, and probably a bit more as the Oldsmobile crawled. I could heave a doctor up there two or three times as fast as anyone in a car.

I dressed in a hurry- plain old work shirt, gray mechanic’s trousers, scuffed loafers. I yanked my hair back and tied it with one of dad’s handkerchiefs, and left most of my assorted junk on the kitchen table. All I had when I ran out the door, by way of gear, was my own leather flight jacket, my sunglasses, and my little black wallet with a few bucks and most of my license cards. In the inner pocket of my jacket was a single open pack of Chesterfields and a matchbook. Nobody’d bothered to tell me I was packing to leave the planet.

*****

I screeched up to the hangar in dad’s 1940 Ford pickup. It had once been a bright beautiful red, before ten years of weather made a mobile Picasso out of it.

Dr. Emerson Soames was pacing in the shadowed hangar interior, keeping out of the sun like an ant that’s spotted a magnifying glass. As I hopped out of the truck, my mind was whirling with calculations for the flight.

"Hey, Doc," I shouted. Soames was a pleasant gnome of a man, with piercing dark eyes in a face seamed and wrinkled like a clay pinch-pot. He was good at what he did, and trusted around the air terminal. "How much do you weigh?"

"What an impertinent question, Miss DeVere." He raised his eyebrows, and with some of his wrinkles formed a smile. "But for the record, one hundred and forty-three pounds, not counting my shoes. Or my bag."

"What about the bag?"

"Thirty pounds, maybe." He gestured to a heavy satchel sitting against the hangar wall. "Not sure what I’ll need, so I packed the big bag. Sulfa, splints, my-"

"What’s the emergency?"

"Fella got thrown off a horse. Compound fractures in his right leg, and they’re afraid to move him. Rightly so, it sounds like."

"Well," I said, "I’m guessing we’ll be about seventy minutes in the air, pushing her for all she’s worth. Will that be good enough?"

"It’s the best the poor guy’s gonna get," said Soames.

Jubal helped Soames and his bag into the little cabin of the plane while I did some quick work with my slipstick. One hundred and thirty pounds of Violet, plus one hundred and seventy pounds of Doc and gear… we were well within my L-2’s weight limits, but I had to figure out how much fuel I could afford to leave behind for the sake of a little extra speed, without letting the tank go dry twenty miles early and a few thousand feet too high.

When I’d done my math homework and a pre-flight check, I hopped into the cockpit. I buckled in, then set my flight jacket on my lap- it might have been hot enough to turn pigs into bacon at ground level, but once you get up a few thousand feet, you can never be sure what sort of conditions you might discover.

"Ever done much flying, Doc?"

"I’m afraid this will constitute my introduction to the wild blue yonder, Miss DeVere."

"Nervous?"

"It’s fair to say that poor bastard up in Paducah is lucky I took a solemn physician’s oath."

"Well, don’t fret. This sweetheart may rock a little on a hot day like this, but the good news is, she can take off or land from the back of a cow, if the cow stands still for a moment."

"What’s the bad news?"

"I didn’t say there was any bad news, did I?" I turned and favored Soames with what I hoped was my most wolfish hot-doggin’ air-ace grin. "You strapped in tight?"

"Yes. Although, I do hate to ask, but I didn’t have any chance to eat or drink before I got the call. Is there-"

"My complete patented emergency sustenance kit is located directly under your seat, Doc. Help yourself."

My complete patented emergency sustenance kit consisted of one bottle of Sun Tang Red Cream Soda. Soames nursed it with surprisingly steady hands as I spun us up to flight speed and sent us into the wind, cranking my baby’s four-cylinder engine for every last one of the sixty-five horses it was good for. In moments we were banking over the field, turning northwest at five hundred feet. I gave our wings a gentle waggle for good luck, and then we hauled tail for Paducah, climbing gently as we went.

*****

Wind was out of the southeast at ten knots. Temperature at ground level was about a hundred and five. The sky above was thick with wispy cirrus clouds, looking like a field of unravelled asbestos fibers, but that was all well past twenty thousand feet. I leveled us off at sixty-five hundred, in warm clear air with perfect visibility ten miles or more in any direction. We got a good hard bounce every few minutes, but when the sun beats down on the countryside like that you can expect some air pockets to float up and make your acquaintance.

I was having a fine time- this wasn’t just a job, it was a mission, with a wistful tinge of my old WASP days. We’d been in the air about twenty minutes when Soames tapped me on my left shoulder.

"Miss DeVere," he shouted, "I hate to bother you with what might be a silly question, but what am I looking at directly behind us?"

I checked six, and past the dark line of the rudder, against the bright blue sky I saw a thin, rippling red line.

"Doc," I said, mouth wide open, "I can honestly say I have no idea."

I watched for a few moments, directly and in my mirrors, as the rippling strand of crimson grew larger, like a bleeding gash in the sky. I couldn’t yet tell whether it was getting closer or simply spreading, back where it was. I decided to get on the horn.

"Abilene Terminal, Taylorcraft six-one-niner Able," I said into my radio headset. I got nothing but static back. "Abilene Terminal, Taylorcraft six-one-niner Able!"

"I could swear it’s getting closer," said Soames.

He was right. The details within the redness were more distinct. The thing had a rippling, gaseous sort of texture, almost like a cloud, though it had a tint that no ordinary cloud had any business showing off in the middle of such a healthy blue sky.

"Might be some kind of St. Elmo’s Fire," I said. "Spend enough time in the air, you’ll see the damnedest things. I’m gonna take us up a ways to get over it."

While I hauled back on the stick, I continued my fruitless attempts to make radio contact with anyone that might know what was going on. "Abilene traffic, Taylorcraft six-one-niner Able, please respond. Any Abilene traffic, please respond, over."

I did not like the static I was getting in return. It meant that either the radio I’d checked on the ground less than half an hour before had suddenly failed, or something was messing with transmission and reception. I leveled us off again at seventy-eight hundred feet.

"Seems to be moving on the same heading we are," I said. "Should pass right beneath us. Makes me wish I’d brought up a camera."

"Miss DeVere, I hate to complain again, but I’m afraid-"

"Holy hell," I said before he was even finished. The scarlet thing climbed, with two or three times the vertical speed I’d just managed, until it was once again directly level with us, and closer than ever. I couldn’t be sure, lacking any real frame of reference for the sinister red phenomenon, but I’d say at that point it was no more than four miles away. "Hang on, Doc."

I banked us to the right, a good hard turn that pointed us due east. I watched the thing out the starboard cabin window- flowing like a bloodstain in water, it surged along with us, still closing. Two miles now, at most. I had a fiercely cold lump in my stomach.

"I don’t think that’s a cloud." I muttered. "Really hold on, Doc." I banked left and gave us a hard yaw, which pitched our nose down below the horizon. Brown and green fields whirled below us as we twisted and dove, with the engine roaring and the air screaming around us. I whipped us back up at five thousand feet, and then checked our six and swore.

The cloud was racing straight down upon us, from above and behind and all sides, unfolding and billowing. I could see white flashes of energy, like heat lightning, stabbing the air from within its boiling red depths.

"Mayday mayday mayday," I hollered into the radio, "mayday mayday mayday, Taylorcraft six-one-niner Able, in need of… oh, shit, mayday, God, we need-"

The air filled with a throbbing, pulsing rhythm, and the L-2 shook like a toy in the hands of an angry toddler. My airspeed counter started rolling off nonsense numbers, and my dash compass went mad. The red cloud enfolded us, and the control column bucked in my hands. I lost track of our orientation- the world outside vanished in the redness, and we tumbled crazily, with white-hot electrical arcs rippling across the wings and spars. I could see fragments of wing skin peeling away into the maelstrom. Doc’s bag tumbled around the cabin, along with an empty glass soda bottle.

The air stank of ozone, and the sizzling crackle of the unearthly lightning grew so loud I couldn’t even hear myself screaming. The world flew to pieces around me, and I thought for sure that we were dead.

*****

A cotton-candy sensation in my stomach, a tickle. Like the instant of free-fall you can get plunging back and forth on a playground swing, if you do it just right. I drifted in soft darkness, too confused to think. Then I had solid weight again, and I hit dirt so hard my consciousness held up its hand to the waiter and said "Check, please!"

I was only out for a few seconds, I’m sure. The pain saw to that. The plane was gone, along with my chair and my straps, and somehow I was sprawled face-down on loose, cool sand, with my flight jacket stuffed under my left cheek. Most of the impact on my upper body seemed to have been taken by my breasts- and that’s not what they were meant for. Let me tell you, imaginary reader, that I had a good long howl before I did anything else.

What the hell had happened? I rolled sideways and ran my fingers through the orange-red sand and gravel of my resting place, and I tried to gather my wits. Not moments earlier I’d been tumbling out of control, probably moving straight down at about two hundred miles an hour. I’d landed hard, sure, but something had clearly decelerated me with incredible efficiency just before that. Human beings who met the ground with the momentum of a crash dive didn’t yowl over their bruises, they turned into spaghetti sauce.

It took me a moment to realize that along with the pain, I felt a strange lightness all over my body. An unnerving sensation, but almost pleasant despite everything. I pushed myself up to take a look around, and received two major shocks.

The first was that my little nudge jack-knifed me backwards and carried me to my knees. I’d exerted about as much force as required for a single meek push-up, and popped upward like a spring.

The second startling thing I noticed was that I was kneeling in the shadow of the most incomprehensibly vast structure I’d ever seen- a tower like a dozen madly-stacked Chrysler Buildings in dull red stone and cold blue metal. Its dark heights soared past the point of visibility under a deep black sky that was on fire with stars. They glowed up there like the image of ten thousand grains of radium dust thrown across a sheet of photographic film.

I knew in an instant that if I wasn’t dreaming, this wasn’t Texas. This wasn’t Earth.

I heard a choking sob from just behind me. I turned clumsily, and saw Doc Soames curled up there on the red sand, trying to move. His busted glasses lay beside his face, and his medical bag was in a little crater of its own, crumpled like road kill.

Doc wasn’t alone.

There were twenty or thirty of them standing just beyond him, tall, dangerous-looking figures in dark suits… no. Armor. The impossible starlight gleamed on their steel-gray armor, ribbed and segmented like drawings I’d once seen of Roman legionaries. They wore long cloak-coats the color of gray smoke, with the mantles thrown back over their shoulders, and they had gray iron masks that cast their eyes into deepest shadow.

Every one of them carried a long, hard object that had to be some sort of weapon. Moving in unison, they came forward across the sand, armored hands outstretched toward Doc and myself.

TO BE CONTINUED

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2