Genre Purge 3 by Andre-Driussi Michael

Author:Andre-Driussi, Michael
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sirius Fiction
Published: 2020-08-26T00:00:00+00:00

Bellerofonte

In golden Cibola, when a kite pilot falls to his death during the games he is called “Icaro,” after the mythic one who flew too close to the Sun. When a flier falls but survives, he is called “Bellerofonte” for the one who never flew again after being thrown by the horse with wings. Usually the games do not involve such disasters since they are all about counting coup, but “accidents” do happen.

On this particular afternoon the slight breeze was coming from the Pacific Ocean to the west, with the ground warm enough to generate thermals, those invisible geysers of uplifting air. In short it was weather perfect for aerial jousting at the Anaheim Mandala, a human hive dominating the orange groves for miles around it.

Participation in the games was voluntary, but viewing was mandatory, with tequila for the elites, mezcal for the respectables, and moonshine for the rest.

The game had roots in the ancient Wind Dancers, where the four winds were ranked and associated with colors. The flying order and starting positions were awarded to each kite pilot by earned ranking: black on top, then yellow, next red, and finally green at the bottom. Always four: no more, no less.

For this particular meet there was a last minute substitution of the green pilot due to food poisoning. This replacement entered the jousting lists as “Bellerofonte.” Scraggly long blond hair stuck out from beneath his green helmet, and his nervous smile showed rotten, crooked teeth, while sunglasses hid his eyes. A stereotypical sudden replacement: a loser probably lured out of retirement with the promise of a bottle of mezcal.

Upon the skyscraping heliport, Bellerofonte avoided gazing at the other three pilots by facing east toward the enormous slope of the Anaheim Mandala. Like a giant roof, the rough concrete stretched three thousand feet from north to south and the same vast reach from ridge to eaves. Built when powered flight had been common, the heliport jutted up from the middle of the slope like a titanic chimney.

Bellerofonte turned from this to focus on the mandala’s twin over at Santa Ana, seven miles away. From this angle he could see the hive as a square concrete box set on point, supported by squat towers. Within the open-ended box a series of internal terraces created a “god’s eye” pattern that gave this form the name “mandala.”

In addition to the pilots and their kites on the heliport there were the judges with their binoculars, the cable TV crew piping visuals into the hive, the horn section, and various officials, one of whom signaled to the pilot black. This accomplished flier took up the black hang glider, strode confidently to the edge at four thousand feet above the ground, and launched off. The yellow pilot checked his quiver of barbed sticks before following. The red pilot pushed off in a rush.

Bellerofonte hobbled as he carried the green hang glider to the edge. He fought the sudden queasy fear of falling with a final check of his weaponry, and then launched into the air.

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