Windhame

by Geoffrey Hart

You spot Windhame from orbit the first time, you know it's somethin' different. It's not just big, see; lots of places big. Jupiter's so big you feel a virus on a flea on the butt of some honkin' big dog, and ole Jove's not even particularly big as planets go. Hell, even Mother Earth's big enough no one can hope to see her all in a single lifetime, even prolonged.

It's just... you don't expect anythin' on this scale to still be light enough man can walk on it, let alone fly. That's right, fly. Why you're here, innit?

Nearer you get, bigger and flatter it gets. You think you know flat, child of Earth, you ain't seen nothin' 'til you're descendin' to Windhame, watchin' the horizons spreadin' farther and farther apart 'til your forehead feels it'll split open from your eyes tryin' to take it all in at once, wonderin' why they didn't call the damned place Tabletop or Plane or somethin' like. Gets no better as the shuttle pulls out of its dive and begins parallelin' the ground, on your way to Hole in the Wall, where Earthmen land. There—and only there—you see somethin' other than flat, 'cause port crews keep the grasses bulldozed to let shuttles land, the hole in the grass creatin' 'bout the only nonflat you're goin' to see.

Okay, so I'm exagerratin'. If you're not careful you can trip on a rock or somethin' hidden in that grass. Yeah, more grass than there's atoms of hydrogen 'tween the stars, only packed more densely—like God went shoppin' for plants one day, grass seed was on sale, and he'd just got his iridium card. From high up, it's the world's biggest shag carpet, deeper than head high, flowin' in wind that never stops and when you're down, you know why they didn' call the place Tabletop or Plane or somethin' like.

This grass you've not seen on Earth—hell, it's like no man's seen on Earth since before they tamed prairies to grow wheat and corn and rye and canola and all those good things. Like you imagine the old tallgrass prairie might have been betimes; you can still see it growin' on back roads where it doesn't pay nobody to herbicide it or burn it or mow it. The grass's green or golden, dependin' on the season; now it's green. You leave the shuttle, grass's what you see, wall of grass, world of grass. Maybe you're feelin' a mite bigger now, like the flea on the dog's back, lookin' out from a patch of mange and wonderin' which part of the fur will shelter you when that big ol' hind leg comes a'scratchin'.

The air's thin. Your ears pop, then you're overwhelmed by the smell. It's like—you ever smelled fresh-cut grass? No? Well that's what it smells like; try it some time. It's not that the dozers have scraped the ground clean of grass or crushed it—which they keep havin' to do now and then; more like there's so much of the damn stuff there's no room for any other smell in the air. They don't let you land when it's cloudy or any time near sunset 'cause of the storm risk—and you ain't never seen no storm'til you've seen a Windhame storm, which you will if you stay long. Now, there's no storm near and sun's so hot you can feel sweat poppin' out your face. Stand there much longer, the sweat's goin' to be runnin' down your sides like neutrons slippin' down a black hole's gravity well, but you stand there anyway on the gangplank, starin' like a rube. The sky above's blue like a sapphire wants to be when it grows up, green grass stretches to the horizon like someone took a laser and cut a line between earth and Heaven and forgot to turn the light off when it reached the world's end. There's nothin' but grass and sky, stretchin''til your eyes get tired of movin' that distance and you blink; you hadn't realized 'til now how dry your eyes were gettin'.

The wind's takin' your sweat away fast as you're makin' it, so fast you can't even smell yourself, notwithstandin' 12 hours on an overheated shuttle and a good day'n'a half 'fore that without so much as a sponge bath in the crapper. A thin wind, like you're up a mountain, only nothin' even remotely like no mountain here, 'less you count the shuttle; they keep the base here underground to shelter from storms. But it's enough, dry enough despite that grass, it pulls the sweat from you all the same. It's not enough to lean into, not this early, before the wind freshens, but local bugs have to work to hold position. You'll spot them if you look, though they stay close to the grasstops to avoid bein' blown away.

Someone pushes you from behind; they've been starin' too, gettin' dry and thirsty in that sun, so you take your first step and almost fall as you step off the ramp. I told you it's a light planet. You get your feet back under you soon enough, since you've been copin' with such changes onboard ship for the months it's taken to get here; within two steps, you're walkin' like a native—who you'll meet soon enough. Now, you're enjoyin' feel of soft ground 'neath your feet after deck plate and poor excuse for carpet they put on ships. The soil's grey as cigarette ash out in the sun, but under grass, it's black as Chinese hair, crumbly like Mom's best cake. And worms—if they had fish here, they'd be linin' up 'long the shore waitin' to get ahold of those suckers. Catch one of them worms and you'd retire on the fish equivalent of easy street and live off its carcass the rest of your life.

With the low gee, it's a short walk to the bunker, its shadow fallin' 'cross you like you were dropped into a swimmin' pool. You stop short, lettin' your eyes adjust. Sure, it's lit, but you've just left the sun; the outdoors's lit. You'll have to find yourself those goggles the locals wear if you plan to spend much time outdoors. Which you do, 'cause it's why you came here, innit? The maitre d' or majordomo or whatever they call the guy takes you hand and brings you and the other tourists to check-in. Paperwork's already done, but they want a headcount and a retinal print before they key you into your room and bring you back to the lobby for The Talk.

The room's like any other luxury hotel, so you hardly notice the cookie-cutter elegance; your kit over your shoulder's too light to notice in this gee, dufflebag they hand you isn't much heavier, though it's tall as you are. You heft the bag with synskin, goggles, GPS, stormtracker, gravitics and suchlike on your other shoulder—all the stuff you're gonna need when they let you out again—and make your way to where you'll change. The room's so small you think you're back on the ship if it weren't for the smell; even over oil and hot metal and plastic and 'lectricity, you can still smell grass. No ship ever launched had that grass smell.

You didn't come here to smell grass; you came to fly. So you tip the duffle onto the floor and check your wings. They're far too large to unfold in such cramped quarters, but you can feel their promise as you caress them: gossamer fabric flesh, spun spider silk, carbon microtubule bones; you feel their life and lift even before you strapped them on. You're halfway into your synskin before you realize your door's open; you're too excited to be alarmed, body-shy though your people are. Belatedly, you close the door and stretch the skin over you, pullin' hard 'til it reaches your neck and you loop the hood around the top of your head, anchorin' it in place. You feel it tug your scalp and the soles of your feet, grudgingly adjustin' to you. In that moment, you see the same image every newfledged Icarus saw since Windhame opened its skies to tourists: the suit slippin' from your forehead and propellin' itself like a bolt from a railgun across the skies, leavin' you nekkid as a jaybird. You grin smugly, straighten a fold where it's pinchin' your butt—now you're safe from the killin' levels of UV—then attach the 'lectronics.

Stormtracker to warn you should Windhame weather begin movin' your way. GPS so you can't lose yourself in endless sky, so those in the bunker, more sober at work, will know where you soar, can direct you 'way from incomin' shuttles, other flyers. Gravitics, of course; even eagles can fall from the sky, fractional gee or not, the surface bein' no less hard when embraced from a thousand metres up than any other planet's surface. Last, goggles shield your eyes and face from light that'd leave you cataract-ridden within a day or two, too far from anythin' like a real clinic to restore your sight anytime soon. You toggle the heads-up display; it flickers to life at edge of your vision; you'd pause to read its messages were it not for green lights linin' the screen and sky lightin' your imagination.

You gather your wings and head for the lobby, feelin' their springiness in your arms where you hug them tight to your chest and feel them vibratin' with your heartbeat. You've stayed in shape, the heart of a man half your age, but still, your pulse's goin' fast enough to alarm your cardiologist were he readin' the telemetry. You think you've been quick, but you've lingered; most of the others are already there. Maybe a dozen, familiar faces but no names, or none you've remembered.

Trainer stands waitin' then reads the speech he's read a thousand times—millions, maybe—and you ignore him, though an irreverent image interposes itself briefly between you and the sky; you see him clutchin' the disembodied seatbelt and explainin' what to do if the oxygen mask falls from overhead. You smile unreservedly, the skin of your cheeks stretchin' beneath the taught synskin, continue ignorin' him; you've read the briefin's often enough you could rewrite them from memory, improvin' them even. You've flown the sims enough you know your wings better than the anonymous techwriter who wrote the manual. The trainer's "any questions?" lingers in impatient silence; shakin' his head, he stands aside.

The wind's freshened, enough that when you unfold your wings, you've got to hold tight lest they take flight themselves and leave you grounded, alone and crippled while others soar. You follow steps you've memorized, savorin' each click and pop as the wings expand and the struts lock in place. You check each joint individually, testin' it with your muscles standin' out against the synskin but unable to do more'n flex it slightly; this carbon, though stuff of life, is sterner. Then you wait for a lull in the steady breeze that's freshened while you were underground and tug the wings onto your shoulders and along your back, where they lock in place with a tremor you can feel the length of your spine and through your limbs. Before they can peel away as the wind gusts again, you slip your arms amidst the pinions runnin' their length, clasp the handles, leap into the air, not waitin' for anyone's permission.

Your tail unfurls behind; the wind catches you at the height of your leap and flips you over on your back. For a moment, there's only sky above, emptiness that beckons you upward, but you ignore its summons and pull one arm across your chest, throw the other backwards, snap onto your belly, only just beginnin' to fall back. Without thinkin', you toss your shoulders forward, wings sweepin' overhead with the same crack! as the canvas on the dinghy you learned to sail more decades ago than you care to remember. But that image fades, these first few strokes bein' crucial; you're too low to harm yourself by fallin', but the shame of needin' a second leap to be airborne would hurt more'n the fall. Your arms sweep backwards and down, and you're higher than your first leap took you, dozens of metres downwind.

A red light flashes on your goggles, so you snap your downwind arm across your chest, throwin' yourself sideways, as another flyer, even less cautious than you, crosses your path. Not close, yet close enough with the span of your wings.

Your first few strokes demand concentration, but after, it's like swimmin' in a river, the wind behind you strong enough this high you've got to work to keep from stallin'. You tense your abdominals, then snap your knees towards your head; your body jacknifes, bringin' your head nearly vertical, even as you cross your arms again and throw yourself into the wind's teeth. The altimeter spins deliriously as the thin air catches you; you rise like a kite caught in a jetliner, acceleration blurrin' the ground 'til your velocity levels off, your eyes catch up. Below and behind, the port's a pore on the landscape's face, small enough you'd never find it again without the GPS, dwindlin' fast as you whip upwards and downwind. Were it not for the synskin's pressure on your flesh, the rush of blood to your feet would blind you.

The last thing you want now's to be blind.

You rise higher, the wind strengthenin' but the omnipresent grass smell finally dwindlin' into the distance, as the horizon stretches ever farther. For the first time since you forgot where you were in the rush, you feel the place's scale. The horizon below stays flat, no matter how high you rise, even when the altimeter chimes, warnin' there'll no longer be oxygen enough to sustain you. There's still no blur or haze in the distance testifyin' to the planet's curvature and the boundary 'tween air and space. Incongruously, you find yourself wonderin' whether you locked your room before leavin'.

The altimeter chimes again, more urgently, so you spin sideways, snappin' your feet to the left and pivotin' 'bout your hips, hangin' suspended before the sky rises above your feet, the ground rises above your head, you begin your fall. You tuck your arms behind and fall like Mercury towards the surface, wind noise risin' 'til you can't hear your heart poundin', horizon fillin' with the grass sea 'til you can no longer see sky in your peripheral vision. Only then do you level out, arms strainin' against the weight of your descent and wings creakin' disturbin'ly, flexin' more'n you'd been able to flex them with all your strength. Innit it a good thing the frame won't let the wings move further than your joints' range of motion? But the wings hold. You soar past the port, the wind only gradually slowin' you, wonderin' if you broke the sound barrier on your way down, knowin' you didn't but not lettin' it stop you from wishin'.

As your speed drops, your stomach and testicles catch up; you angle your arms upwards, shoulders strainin', bendin' your path into a horizontal loop, shootin' downwind faster than the wind itself and feelin' the loss of lift enough you've got to scull your arms to maintain altitude. As you pass over the port, you cross your arms again and do a barrel roll, showin' off, not carin' whether anyone's watchin'. Your speed drops further; anticipatin' the stall warnin', you turn into the wind and fling yourself upwards, reachin' for altitude like the shuttle tryin' to escape to its native realm.

How long you wheel and bank and climb and dive, you don't know; the chronometer in your goggles could tell, but you're one with the wind. What need has wind of time? You've no idea where the port is anymore, though the GPS will tell if you ask, but what need has wind for one location? But the stormtracker's lit a yellow warnin' at the corner of your vision—metaphors notwithstandin', unlike the wind, you've got to heed its warnin' if you want to be back up here again tomorrow.

Blinkin', you roll and set yourself on a flat glide, lettin' the GPS turn you towards the port. As you descend, you consult the stormtracker's display and your breath draws in sharply, only now feelin' the ache in your chest muscles months in a gym couldn't prevent. The doppler radar shows an order of magnitude increase in wind speed since you left, but that you were prepared for; what leaves you breathless is the two orders of magnitude increase further upwind, comin' for you in a curved wall like the breakers you surfed as a kid. For a moment you panic, then the scale sinks in; Windhame's big, so you've got maybe an hour before the storm closes enough to threaten. Even so, you steepen your glide and bend your path more closely towards the base. You'll not be the last one home, but neither will you be first. You'll have to keep your wits 'bout you. The part of your mind that's already plottin' your approach wonders how the shuttle managed to leave without your seein' it or hearin' its voice on the wind.

Far too soon, the ground comes up in your face, close enough you can see individual stalks of grass, angled steeply as the wind combs them. Small, furry shapes are boundin' through the grass, each leap carryin' them above head height as they flee downwind towards the base. You'd love to watch them closer, but you've got to land. It'd be embarassin' to be blown onto your back or to pitch forward on your face; it'd be even less pleasant to break a limb landin' too fast and hard. Come all this way for a single day's flyin'? Not if you've got anythin' to say 'bout it.

So you time your descent, watch the altimeter and airspeed indicator 'til you feel close enough to touch the ground, then snap up your wings. The gossamer fills with a snap! as you catch the wind, killin' velocity. What remains sends you staggerin' 'til you catch your balance and get your groundlegs beneath you again. Though you reel a moment, you stay standin', abdominals crunched hard to keep you bent forward and your wings spillin' the wind. Safely down, you hit the release, goin' to your knees as your wings collapse around you and the struts sink to the ground. You pull them in, hardly thinkin', before the wind can snatch them.

The furry shapes bound past you and into the port, but their musky smell's all around you, strong as grass scent, as you gather your wings into a compact bundle and look for the bunker door. The clap of thunder deafens you, almost makes you drop your burden. You look up, expectin' rain—but the storm's still minutes away. All you see's the last few flyers descendin', faster than you, for they've left themselves less time to escape. You hurry inside, the trainer takes the wings from a numbed grip; you hardly notice, for you're surrounded by a sea of sunwarmed fur and pleasantly musky scent.

You push gently through them, headin' for the bar, but not because you need a drink; you're already drunk on the wind. Anythin' else'd be gildin' the lily. No, your goal's somethin' more important: the bar has the bunker's only window (lookin' up from underground), and you've heard so much 'bout Windhame's storms, they drew you almost strongly as the chance to fly. You sit at the bar, peel the hood from your face with a snap (only then noticin' the sweat soakin' your hair), remove your goggles, secure them to your belt. The bartender places a bottle in front of you. Without takin' your eyes from the window, you drink. Salty-sweet, it runs down your throat like finest cognac; you suddenly realize just how thirsty you are. Flyin's hard work, even for a younger man. You shoot the bartender a grateful look without ever meetin' his eyes, turn your gaze back to the sky.

Where before there was blue, pewter and black anvils of cloud now fill the sky, loomin' overhead like a fallin' tree. The storm will hit any second—but you wait, wait, finally give in and pick up your stormtracker. No, it's still miles and minutes away; it's the clouds' height deceivin' you. Lightnin' flashes bright enough to throw your shadow against the far wall, notwithstandin' the window's automatic polarization; the room fills with a hushed chitterin' from the natives. Then thunder rolls 'cross the room, like standin' behind a shuttle as it launches. Your ears're still ringin' when the first hailstones strike, balls of ice the size of a child's fist caromin' off the ground and leapin' high. The grass's beaten flat by the wall of water followin' the hail; the lightnin' blinds you even as the bartender hits the button to roll the plastalloy doors across the window, the thunder roarin' so loud the bar shakes and your drink topples. By the time you've looked down to apologize, the hail's drummin' so loud on the windowshields, you can't hear your own voice. The bartender nods, havin' already dropped his washcloth on the spill. As he returns what's left of the drink, he nods his head, directin' you towards the deeper bunker.

You look around, bemused, find the bar empty 'cept for discarded drinks and the natives' lingerin' aroma. The bartender shepherds you down the stairs and seals the blast door over your head. Even here, the ground shakes from the storm's violence, the hail and the rain overhead like the ocean's pulse at night, lullin' to anyone who doesn't grasp the strength they represent. You know better, for you've briefly played at tamin' that wind, knowin' all the while it was just playin' with you.

After a time, you wander over to a cluster of natives. They have the sleekness and mischievous faces of Terran otters, but they're banded like ground squirrels. Cuteness notwithstandin', they're no prairie dogs. Their hands are sturdy and calloused, as befits diggers, but fingers are long and supple, two thumbs on each hand both opposable. And they wear woven grass belts bearing metal tools half-concealed by the coarse weave. They speak no English, but the bartender's accompanied you, as he's done for many before, to interpret their squeaks and grunts. He's well paid to live on Windhame for long as he wants, but not so well paid he's unwillin' to work for tips.

No, the natives don't resent your presence. Quite the contrary; they welcome it, you bringin' proof of the world lyin' beyond their heaven, welcome your insecurity 'bout your place in the world leadin' you to dare the skies to prove yourself to yourself, perhaps to them. They've no desire to tempt the skies that bring them life when the storms have passed, death should they linger outside their burrows when the storms come. Now and then, they correct the bartender when his interpretin' strays too far from their meanin'; it's hard to remember, with those mischievous faces, they're intelligent enough to learn your language, even if their anatomy stops them from speakin' it.

When your exertions catch up with you, yawning, you hand them a few offworld coins they'll use to buy more tools, or keep as treasures in their own right. You press more coins on the bartender, who thanks you, then, with a knowin' look, directs you to your room. Your bag's already waitin'. You throw yourself onto your bunk, desperate for sleep, before the synskin's and your bladder's pressures remind you of the foolishness of lyin' down before you've done what's needed. You peel away the suit, amused to note it doesn't fly across the room when you tug it past your shoulders and drag it to the floor. The crapper's close enough you can reach it with stiffenin' limbs. You relieve yourself, only rememberin' at the last minute to flush before you throw yourself down on the coarse, scratchy blankets. Unpleasantly scratchy, but now they're feelin' better than satin.

The cot trembles beneath you. As you fall into darkness, you can't tell whether the tremblin's the storm reaching' for you through ten metres or more of soil and rock, or your own abused muscles puppy-dreamin' now they're free of your mind's commands.

In the mornin', your muscles're so stiff you're convinced you'll need to ring for medical assistance, but you've been warned to expect this. Grittin' your teeth 'gainst the pain, you stretch 'til every muscle in your body seems afire. But afterwards you can move. Good thing; you reek of stale sweat, the empty pit of your stomach threatens to consume you if you don't find breakfast soon. Under the shower's beat, which pounds life back into your complainin' flesh, you notice the storm's passed, the ground's once more still beneath and around you. Coffee, followed by enough breakfast for two normal men, then you're back outside, ready to embrace the sky once more.

The day's rhythm repeats the next mornin', the next ones after, 'til your stay here ends. You head for the surface, bearin' your kit and your memories, to stand awaitin' the shuttle. Two hundred tonnes of steel and ceramic hurtles towards you and touches down gently, gravitics cuttin' in at the last moment. You know exactly how it feels as it settles. It will soon take to the sky again, your natural element, as you stand in the openin' in the grass, watchin', amused, as a dozen tourists disembark to take your place. They stand there, starin' openmouthed at the grass, miraculously recovered after the latest storm's poundin', only move into the bunker when a crewmember, frownin' at somethin' only he can see in his goggles, pushes the rearmost and propels them into motion. They walk past, unseein'. You share a smile with the other flyers and the crewman, understandin' what they don't know yet.

Sinkin' back against the paddin', you close your eyes and hear the wind's sighin' 'cross the ramp, smell Windhame's sharp, cut-grass smell, feel your time here endin'. When the ramp lifts with the whine and grease-scent of hydraulics, the door thumps shut, the gravitics lift you gently into the air. You bite your lips against the sudden longin' risin' in you, the longin' only faintly soothed by the engine's roar and the thrust pressin' you hard into your seat. The shuttle's returnin' home, but you? You're a flyer, not someone who's flown. As Windhame falls behind, dwindlin' in the distance, you know you're leavin' only in body.

Somewhere behind, a part of you's still flyin'.

Author's note

I chose the wording and grammar shifts in the story to represent a softening of hard g sounds and the streamlining that might occur as language evolves in the coming centuries; the goal was to distance us, through language, from what we more often read and create a sense of estrangement. It's emphatically not an attempt to imitate African-American dialect, though the dropped g's does remind me a bit of a Jamaican accent.

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