Chapter 21: The Councilors

“Is it absolutely necessary to take off like a shot every time we launch?” Londo Sarn, Artona’s Silvestrian search-and-rescue partner, grumbled from the back seat.

“A warrior’s reflex must be sharp, and their stamina strong; their weapon, whether a blade or a starfighter, must be trained until it becomes an extension of their own body,” Artona replied.

“This is a rescue mission, not training, and this isn’t a starfighter,” Londo replied, smoothing his gray fur after the forceful takeoff. Though the pod dampened inertial effects, and his seat restraints held him firmly in place, this mad Urarc seemed to feel that every flight needed to stress-test their small vessel and his blood pressure.

“Ah, but it is. Every moment is preparing you for the next; you must seize each opportunity for improvement. And you may know the limits and bounds of your scanners and screens back there,” she said honestly, trying not to condescend but failing miserably. “But you definitely do not understand this vessel.”

He scowled at the back of her head, but she was right; the flyer they sat in defied every law of design he knew, and it performed better than any craft this size he’d ever seen. Reluctantly, he had to mark another notch on his mental scorecard in Artona’s column, which irritated him greatly.

Though smaller in stature than his ursine pilot, Londo was well aware that he was large for a Silvestrian, at least around the middle. Most of the search and rescue team members were in peak physical shape, well-suited for long-duration operations that entailed pulling people from wreckage or carrying stranded hikers off mountains.

He was not. His specialty and passion was for the systems and gear the team used during these missions; he took great pride in the fact that the implementation of his algorithm was a key feature in the latest update to the scanner system he now operated from the back of this pod, increasing the range and sensitivity by a whopping twelve percent. There wasn’t anyone who knew this scanning system better than him, and that fact was the main reason he was on this mission in the first place.

Artona leveled out as they reached cruising speed, continuing to work the grid, searching for survivors. In the back seat, as they scanned the surface below the streaking flyer, Londo watched both the scanner readout and the small diagnostic window, monitoring the system’s performance and taking notes as to possible tweaks he could make for future improvements; though he was loath to admit she was right about anything, he agreed with her that constant improvement was everything.

In that spirit, Londo continued to monitor the system diagnostic terminal, making minute adjustments, focusing on the very edge of the scanner’s range. ‘Hmm, zero point zero-zero six,’ Londo made a note, reading an internal parameter. ‘Maybe point zero-zero seven,’ he thought, making the slight adjustment. As he did so, several anomalous forms resolved themselves from the background noise at the edge of the sensors’ range to the east, but where they were sweeping the grid currently in a northerly direction, so the spot he thought the sensors signalled a target quickly fell behind them and out of the scanner’s range of detection.

“Artona, I may have just had a hit on the sensors,” Londo called out. “It was at the edge of the detectable range to the east. Please come around, bearing one-sixty degrees, about a klick and a half. That should put us nearly on top of them.”

“Roger, coming around, bearing one-six-zero,” she replied, cutting hard to the right. It only took a couple of minutes for them to pass over the spot, but the sensors revealed nothing.

“Do me a favor and loiter here for a moment,” Londo said as he fiddled with several settings, determined to find the ghosts that now evaded his detection. Artona brought the pod to a complete standstill, hovering silently fifty meters over the ground.

Londo’s frustration grew as he tried several more parameter changes and half a dozen custom signal filters he was sure should work, but no further images resolved from the background.

“Anything?” Artona asked, patiently waiting for her partner to give the go-ahead to resume their search pattern.

After several more minutes of subaudible grousing, Londo finally caved. “I don’t know; whatever it was is gone now. If it were survivors, I imagine they would have actively tried to flag us down by now.” He huffed a heavy sigh of disappointment at not quite understanding what it was the sensors saw, but eventually turned, putting a hand on the back of Artona’s seat. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Giving up then?” Artona asked, accelerating the craft back up to cruising speed.

“Not quite. The system records everything; I’m going to fire up a separate processor and run some deeper analysis as we go. I’ll figure it out; you’ll see,” he said, not feeling as certain as he hoped his bravado made him sound.

Below the surface where the flyer had just scanned, a large sewer line had been fractured and partially exposed by the violent waters of the tsunami that had torn up the ground everywhere in its wake. The three-man scout team counted a dozen long minutes before risking a peek out of their hiding spot for fear of being seen.

They heard the report of a sonic boom in the distance, the only sound the craft they tracked seemed to make, stirring them into action.

“Go check to see if the coast is clear,” one man said to another. The second man replied with a wordless nod and crept to the broken mouth of the sewer, which jutted out into the water-etched crevasse.

Pulling himself up slowly past the top edge of the large pipe, he scanned the surrounding airspace carefully for the target they were tasked to monitor. “It’s gone,” he said, letting go of the edge, dropping back down to his feet at the bottom of the drain. “Don’t think they got a good look at us; they stopped for a moment, then continued on.”

“Lucky thing for you, Ed; if you had blown the plan standing out there in the open like an idiot, Claec would have forced us to gut you, if he didn’t do it himself.”

“Fuck you, Bill,” the lookout replied, giving Bill a half hearted shove. “He would have gutted us all, as likely as not. Three less idiot mouths to feed.”

“True that,” the third man said, leaning against a dirty wall. “But we still have a job to do. Ed, go give the signal,” he said, not bothering to move a muscle.

Ed grumbled to himself as he climbed out of their hidey hole and up the steep wall of loose dirt. “Why don’t you ever do it, Tom? It’s always me,” he muttered to no one under his breath as he scrambled up.

As soon as he was standing on firmer ground, he walked a short distance to the highest spot in the immediate vicinity, pulled a small mirror out of a pocket, and held it up nearly at eye level.

Carefully angling it, he caught the partial rays of sunlight and pivoted it slightly, flashing a beam of sunlight into the distance in a south-easterly direction. He waited a moment and spotted three small blips of replying light in the distance. He then clambered back to cover.

“Signal sent and received,” Ed commented, dropping into a crouch, leaning against the wall covered in dried nastiness that covered the inner surfaces of their hiding spot. The other two men nodded and found spots to sit that were as comfortable as could be, given their location.

Bill pulled out a long knife from his boot and began shaving a stick, while Tom sat leaning against the wall, looking deceptively relaxed, eyes half lidded, as if he expected an attack from either outside or from within the little group.

Ed wasn’t built for waiting, and after a few minutes of silence between the men, he spoke up, if only to keep himself from thinking too much about how miserable he was. “I don’t see how we’re going to get all the way back before it all goes down. We’d need to leave now if we wanted to have any chance.”

Bill gave him a disgusted look. “That’s not the plan, idiot,” he derided, “Someone’s got to let the boss know when the flyer is too far to help, and signal back. That’s why us and the three other groups are spread out over these shit piles; we spot, and the others relay. Otherwise, that flyer gives them ‘air su-per-i-or-i-ty’,” he said, emphasizing each syllable for effect, throwing a rock at Ed’s head with force.

Having already been on the receiving end of one of Bill’s projectiles, Ed dodged the incoming missile, but failed to keep his footing and fell on his ass, to the amusment of the other two men.

“Besides, when the shit goes down, there’s bound to be casualties,” Bill commented thoughtfully. “I’d rather take my piece after the fighting’s done. I’m not going to risk my neck if I don’t have to. All we have to do is watch for that flyer, and signal back to the group when they’re heading out for the last flight of the day.” Bill paused, thoughtful for a moment. “Shit will get real come sunset. Trust me, you’ll be glad you’re way out here when it does.”

Ed reluctantly agreed to the wisdom of Bill’s words, and the three men settled in, ready to do their part in support of the action that would soon take place to the south.

The first several hours of their flight westward were largely uneventful, punctuated with occasional sightings of survivors; their overall mandate of search and rescue hadn’t changed, so Will kept the pod at a steady cruising speed that worked best for the scanners.

Whenever Tenara’s sensors picked up a blip, Will landed their craft and they provided aid, and a swift ride back to the nearly completed hospital aid station at Trantmore where the main thrust of the Team’s efforts were concentrated, then rocket back to their last location at supersonic speeds to minimize disruption of the progress towards their goal of reaching IMC’s headquarters on Khosrow.

About midway through the day, after being granted permission to seek out Tenara’s family and after a couple of return trips with survivors, there was a long, uneventful stretch without an encounter.

Tenara continued to monitor her equipment dutifully, but would occasionally look up and watch the cloud cover zip by, her mind wandering. Though she attempted to keep it to herself, Will caught the occasional heavy sigh, and his heart ached in sympathy for the immense weight his flight partner must be bearing.

“How are you doing back there?” Will asked, his voice full of concern.

“Good,” came the flat, monosyllabic reply.

Will raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Undeterred, He pressed on. “It’d be perfectly reasonable for emotions to be all over the place,” he said. “I know mine would be. Worry for their well-being, the uncertainty, it’s a lot to handle.” Another heavy sigh came from the back seat, telling Will that he was somewhat near the truth of it.

“I’m afraid that...” Tenara paused, forcing herself to confront an ugly possibility: “that Herb was wrong, that they’re not there, or that we’re too late and...” she didn’t have the heart to finish the sentence. Will let the silence hang in the cockpit, allowing Tenara time to process the situation. “I’m not sure how I’ll handle it if we don’t find them,” she said finally.

Will nodded empathetically. “I can only imagine the turmoil you must be feeling. All I can say is that no matter what happens, you have friends you can lean on.”

A small, sad smile curled the edge of Tenara’s mouth. “Thanks, Will. That means a lot to me,” she replied, her heart a tiny bit lighter.

The terrain they flew over had been sprawling farmland, as evidenced by the wide tracks of torn up fields with occasional knocked over barns and grain silos, with farm equipment half buried in mud and debris. As the hours ticked by, the lines of large farms were interrupted by the remains of suburban areas, growing in size until they had left the agricultural area behind and were flying over more developed areas.

Off in the distance, thanks to their elevated position in flight, a metropolitan skyline of towering buildings slowly rose into view on the horizon as they sped westward. The scanner began pinging, sounding off the charts, as it reported a large number of targets. “Looks like there’s a large gathering up ahead,” she alerted Will.

“Got it. Coming in for a closer look,” he replied, pitching the nose downward into a steep descent. He slowed the pod as they approached, and now that they were closer, they could see that the crowd was mostly seated in several rows of folding chairs, all facing a line of tables where several people sat, facing the group.

The pod’s arrival seemed to have disrupted whatever was going on below; dozens of people stood from their seats, turned, and pointed at the slowly hovering craft. Will spun the pod slowly around and found a nearby empty park to touch down on.

All the grass had been stripped off, leaving nothing but dirt and mud, along with several wide trees that had been uprooted and lay on their sides. A couple of them were already being cut up and removed.

Will landed the pod in an open space close to the occupied plaza, and as soon as they were down, the crowd from the plaza rushed up to the edge of the park but hung back, waiting uncertainly for the occupants of the flyer to emerge. Those who gathered wore clothes of elegant cut, but dirty, and the people themselves seemed bedraggled. They looked like they hadn’t slept well for a while, but otherwise seemed to be faring much better than their eastern counterparts. Will also noted several burly men in uniform, wearing side arms, watching the flyer warily. Will guessed they were local peace officers, trying to protect the locals and maintain order.

Will unbuckled his restraints and turned around in his seat to face Tenara. “Ready?” he asked. Tenara nodded. Will hit the canopy release, and as it melted away, the murmur of the crowd could be heard across the short distance to the pod.

Will climbed out, and Tenara hopped out in one fluid, graceful motion beside him. “Hi folks, my name is Will Foucault, and this,” he said gesturing, “is Tenara Cinlass. We’re here as part of the Altruist Action Network’s response to the disaster.”

The murmurs grew as the crowd whispered among themselves, but no one spoke up or stepped forward to greet them. Will looked awkwardly from face to face, looking to see who amongst them would talk to him, but the crowd only watched with distant interest, as if he should already know what was required of him.

“Pardon me, excuse us; please let us through,” came a voice from somewhere in the back of the group. They parted, and a man, as well-dressed as the others, though his clothes were clean and freshly pressed. He wore a blue ribbon pinned to his lapel and walked through the crowd, escorted by two large, uniformed men, trailing just behind him to his left and right.