Free Look to Windward by Iain M. Banks Page A

were over half a kilometer above the escarpment now and the air spilling over the aircraft’s fields felt chill on his carapace. Their rate of ascent had slowed appreciably, and Feli’s hair wasblowing out to one side rather than whipping all about her head.
    â€œSee you later!” she yelled through the air. Then she let go.
    She leaned out, gloves coming free first, then boots; Kabe saw the shining claws flick back in, reflecting orange-yellow in the sunlight as she dropped away. Released, the blimp set off into the sky again.
    Kabe and Ziller looked out over the same side of the aircraft; it pushed back, keeping level, then spun around so they could watch the woman as she swooped. She kicked her legs and threw out her arms; the wing slats deployed, turning her in a single flicker into a giant blue-green bird. Over the noise of the wind, Kabe heard her wild ya-hooing. She curved away, heading toward the sunrise, then kept on turning and disappeared momentarily behind the banner leaf. In the skies around them, Kabe could make out a handful of other fliers; tiny dots and shapes angling through the air beneath the tethered balloons of the risen blimp trees.
    Feli was banking round, gaining height now, heading back on a rising curve that would take her underneath them. The aircraft swivelled slowly in the air, keeping her in view.
    She passed twenty meters beneath them, performing a roll and yelling at them, a huge grin on her face. Then she swung back over to present her back to the sky and swooped again, pulling her wings in and tearing away and down. She seemed to be diving into the ground. “Oh!” Kabe heard himself say.
    Suppose she died? He had already started to compose in his head the next voice-piece he would sendto the Homomdan Far-Flung Correspondents News Service. Kabe had been sending these illustrated letters back home every six days for nearly nine years now and had built up a small but devoted band of listeners. He had never had to describe an accidental death in one of his recordings and he did not relish the idea of doing so now.
    Then the blue-green wings flicked out again and the woman rose once more, a kilometer away, before finally disappearing behind a fence of banner leaves.
    â€œOur angel is not immortal, is she?” Ziller asked.
    â€œNo,” Kabe said. He was not sure what an angel was, but thought it would be rude to ask either Ziller or Hub for the information. “No, she’s not backed-up.”
    Feli Vitrouv was one of about half of the wing-fliers for whom no recording of her mind-state existed to revive them if they dived into the ground and were killed. It gave Kabe an unpleasant feeling just thinking about it.
    â€œThey call themselves the Disposables,” he said.
    Ziller was silent for a moment. “Strange that people are happy to adopt epithets they would fight to the death to throw off had they been imposed.” A yellow-orange highlight reflected off part of the aircraft’s brightwork. “There is a Chelgrian caste called the Invisibles.”
    â€œI know.”
    Ziller looked up. “Yes, how are your studies going?”.
    â€œOh, well enough. I’ve only had four days, and there were various pieces of my own I’ve had to finish. However, I’ve made a start.”
    â€œAn unenviable task you’ve taken on, Kabe. I’d offeran apology on behalf of my species except I feel it would be superfluous as that is more or less what my entire body of work consists of.”
    â€œOh, now,” Kabe said, embarrassed. To feel such shame for one’s own was, well, shameful.
    â€œWhereas this lot,” Ziller said, nodding over the side of the aircraft at the wheeling dots of the wing-fliers, “are just odd.” He settled back in his seat and produced his pipe from a pocket. “Shall we stay here a while and admire the sunrise?”.
    â€œYes,” Kabe said. “Let’s”.
    From up here they