There was a point to all of this shrewd clarity: whoever won the next prize might win every war to come. That’s why Karlan heard rumors and smart guesses about special plans for days exactly like this. It was even said that the generals who oversaw the war—the silk uniforms that controlled the world—were gathering around tables, playing elaborate kid games. They were testing what they should do when an ancient monster surfaced, and they guessed what their enemies might attempt in response, and they were trying to figure out the very best way to use whatever the carcass surrendered.
The fine long plunge continued.
The first wave was already approaching the target. Binoculars showed Karlan the blackish corona leaking its weak golden light, begging for someone’s help, and then a single fletch dove into the scene, its ballast discarded and the big engines trying to coax it close enough for one clean killing shot. But those maneuvers were abandoned moments later. Suddenly the fletch tried to climb, banking hard to let its high-hands aim at other targets, and then came a bright flash as twin rockets struck it and detonated, the impact and blasts throwing the machine downwards, spinning as it fell.
The airship struck the demon floor, skimming for an instant before punching through and turning to flame.
Ticker cursed, complaining, “The papio never come this fast.”
Why would they? They never had a worthwhile target.
“Do you see that, Karlan? There’s got to be twenty wings below us.”
More than twenty, and that didn’t count aircraft still coming from other bases scattered along the reef. Karlan made one slow circle with his turret and cannon, getting a sense of the mayhem that had only just begun.
The papio were smart.
He had no doubts about that.
Smart meant coming here with at least two ways to win. The weak victory would be killing the corona, sending it back under the demon floor. Let it die with its own kind while keeping any treasures from being captured by the enemy. That wouldn’t be the worst end. But the strong victory—the reason for parades and medals and maybe a few statues in the bargain—involved claiming the carcass for themselves and then against long odds, somehow dragging it home again.
At first glance, that was as impossible as any task could be.
But Karlan had already invested time wrestling with the problem. And seeing what was happening—the numbers of wings coming and their fantastic speed—he had a clear sense of what had to happen next.
To Ticker, he said, “Stow your cannon. Deploy the harpoon, now.”
“But we’re going to be under fire,” the boy complained.
Arguing would waste time. Karlan stowed his cannon instead and pulled up the pneumatic gun, locking it into position.
Ticker noticed, and proving his stupidity, he called the bridge to warn the captain what the lead high-hand was doing.
Karlan’s com-line started buzzing.
The Girl had dropped as far as the pilot dared take them, and with a single wrenching motion, the extra ballast was released. Massive sacks continued falling, bursting against the demon floor, and the water dribbled through, instantly turning to steam. But the ship continued to descend, slower now but willing to spend the last of its altitude. More water and soaked timbers came out of the belly as the machine and the men onboard tried to remember the magic of floating in one place.
The com-line fell silent.
They were following an arc, approaching the corona from above. The giant body was gray and yellow and perfectly round, inflated until it looked ready to burst. The mouth couldn’t be seen, but no doubt the corona was pushing bursts of hot air out of its mouth, fighting for any lift. All that effort, but the demon floor lay just below, and the animal was plainly struggling not to fall back into its world.
The Girl’s first officer appeared beneath Karlan’s turret. A young high-hand needed to suffer a good yelling, it seemed. “Kill the enemy first,” the officer said. “Then we’ll kill the corona.”
“But look,” said Karlan. “The monster’s ready to fall back under.”
“Ensign,” the officer shouted. “Follow orders.”
Harpoons were stowed on racks behind his seat. It was a clumsy, messy system put in place because the turret had two jobs. Gauging speed, Karlan guessed they were going to catch the corona in another half-recitation. Ticker had his turret opened up. He was firing at the papio, and it looked as if he was trying to kill all of them, filling the air with holes.
That voice below kept nagging.
Looking between his feet, Karlan said, “The cannon’s jammed, sir. Come here, please. I need help.”
The officer started climbing into the turret.
Karlan struck him with a fist, not particularly hard, and then the man was sitting in the hallway below, nursing a broken nose.
The Girl moved from falling into a climb, accelerating all the while. Somebody wanted to get them into position to defend their claim, which was stupid. Karlan spun his chair, digging into the harpoon stash. One harpoon was different from all others. It lacked explosives and the killing electrical line. Nothing rode that shaft but springs and barbed hooks that were folded tight, waiting to bite hold of the meat, and only that harpoon was coupled to a thick steel cable that fed straight from the fletch’s bow.
Karlan loaded that harpoon and popped the compressor button.
A thousand deep breaths were squeezed into a tiny steel chamber, and the breech began to hiss.
Only then did he yank open the turret’s canopy.
The corona was beside him—a vast looming dome-shaped piece of life. Dangling from the underside was a forest of long necks and heads, but every neck was limp, heads looking weak and sloppy. Only a few of those heads bothered glancing at the Girl. Scales were missing from the body, and bulges and discolored splotches showed where cancers had taken root. Plainly, the beast was on its final days. Karlan couldn’t guess its mind. He shouldn’t bother trying. But he suspected madness, maybe senility, watching the corona conjure the last dregs of its energies, trying hard not to fall back through the floor, perhaps lost forever.
Fletch engines throttled up, and the bow began to lift.
The high-hand aimed and the harpoon burst free. Steel screamed as the cable flew off the drum inside the ship’s nose. Then the metal shaft pierced the old scales, weak and frail as paper, and the springs fired and the long hooks deployed inside a mass of ancient scar tissue.
The drum felt the slack line and automatically pulled in the tension.
In an instant, the Girl had been fused to its quarry, and feeling the weight, its nose dipped, unable to climb any farther.
The bloodied officer was standing again, pulling at one of Karlan’s boots while screaming about this gross insubordination.
As if picking up a half-cup of tea, Karlan grabbed the man by his neck, lifting him into the turret while his dry steady voice said, “I’m giving you a present.”
The officer struggled.
Karlan gave him a rough shake.
“You want the cannon?” he asked. “Deploy it yourself.”
The officer managed to ask, “Why?”
“Because I’m insubordinate, and you relieved me from my duties.”
Taking a sidearm and binoculars, Karlan went straight to the bridge.
The pilot and captain were sharing the controls. The captain looked miserable and a little lost, but seeing the high-hand gave him purpose.
“You aren’t on station,” he said.
“It’s the corona,” Karlan said.
“What’s that?”
“The corona wants to stay up here with us. We need to put balloons inside it, give it all our help. Every ship needs to lash on and use their balloons.”
The captain saw no reason to believe this noise. He seemed barely able to understand even the words, shaking his head as he asked, “How do you know what the creature wants?”
With a stern, certain voice, Karlan lied. “Merit was my neighbor. He taught me everything about coronas.”