Nausicaa: The Man from the High Clouds
Please note that this is my first serious attempt at writing fanfic. Feedback (both positive and negative) is gratefully appreciated. Of course, if you flame too much I will start work on "Mobile Home Gundam", or "Lovely Soldier Sailor Shoemaker-Levi-9". You all remember how bad "Pet Labour" was. :)
This story is based on the manga Nausicaa of the Valley of Wind by Hayao Miyazaki.
The Man from the High Clouds
Prologue: Cloudchaser
by
Nicholas C. Weaver
The man known only as Sirocco looked down on his homeland. From out of the high clouds, he dove down, leaving the jetstream and entering the thicker air below. The wings of his kite started humming as he flew faster and faster, trading altitude for speed. He looked back, smiling at the contrail as he dived for home. His joy lasted but a second more, when he looked down on the ruins of Pejitei.
The once noble city lay in wreckage below him. In a few scattered spots, Torumekian troops and wormhandlers could be seen rushing from building to building. A corvette taxied down an improvised runway. In a moment, it took off and started flying towards him. He pulled up on his glider, turned the engine to full, and climbed vertically into the clouds. In less then a minute he reentered the jetstream, leveled out and began to fly north, unwilling to face hostile aircraft. Perhaps there were answers in the Valley of Sand.
Sirocco lead a charmed life. As the only cloudchaser still alive, his services were unique. From the Holy City of Shuwa to the Torumekian capitol of Tolas and all areas surrounding the rotwood, tavernkeepers and farmers knew him well. Starting in the planting season, he flew around the periphery bringing news to the cities and seeding clouds to bring rain to dry soil. The farmers paid him well, for even on a cloudless day he could bring down a light sprinkle. For the first few months, he stayed near home, but then the urge to travel returned. First through Torumekia and then through the Dorok lands, he spread news and water. A month or two across the Sea of Corruption and then he was home. A six month journey, which he repeated almost immediately.
Perhaps his favorite part was traveling through the Sea of Corruption. Much of his time he spent in idle pursuits, riding the afternoon updrafts or catching the occasional thunderstorm. But wormhandlers need rain and news, too. So he gave it with pleasure, asking only shelter in return. The forest itself possessed enough wonders to make up for this lower pay.
His glider was as unique as he was. It's wings were thinner then usual and incredibly flexible. They would bend in the mighty storms, hum during high speed dives, but they would not break. Next to the engine there was a small compressor to provide air when flying the jetstream. Instead of a control bar, the pilot strapped himself onto the thicker central portion, and controlled using two small levers which moved the ailerons. Maneuverability was sacrificed for speed, robustness, and altitude.
When others were grounded, he flew. He loved the storms. The wild winds threw him faster then he could otherwise go. If the weather was perfect, he could travel one hundred and fifty leagues in an hour, hopping from thunderhead to thunderhead, catching the updrafts which went with the massive storms. Or if the wind blew against him, he climbed up higher until he found winds going the other direction.
Naturally, this life took it's toll. It is an unstable man who becomes a cloudchaser. No ordinary person would brave the freezing winds, the high altitudes, the solitude, and the storms. Cloudchasers tended to die young, thrown from their wings in a gale. Like many arts in these twilight years it was in decline. Now there was only one left. He had no intention of being blown out of the sky by a corvette. The last cloudchaser vowed to die in a storm.
The Man from the High Clouds
Chapter 1: Scattered Clouds
by
Nicholas C. Weaver
There were reasons why all other pilots avoided high altitudes. It was incredibly cold, the air thin, and the winds treacherous. A pocket of turbulence could drop a corvette two hundred feet in a few seconds. Sirocco felt comfortable when he reached the high altitude winds. No reasonable pilot would follow him. He flew on for a couple hours.
But he would have to land fairly soon, and hopefully find news. His approach needed to be cautious. He performed a mental inventory of his supplies. A half dozen strobe grenades and a worm flute in the compartment by his left hand, and a pistol and knife in the right hand cache. In the two sheaths built into the fuselage lay his rifle and sword. Ten shells and four siren shells rested in loops on his belt. His clothing fit tightly and warm, with his long heavy coat covering his light gray flight suit. His backpack contained 5 days worth of food, 6 liters of water, and a small sack of Chiko nuts. In a pouch on his belt rested a dozen gold coins and three riverstones. Three dozen more coins and a handful of riverstones rested in a compartment beneath the left aileron. The rest of his wealth lay hiding back home in Penjite. Unless some soldier found it by now.
With a moments hesitation, he began to dive downward. It would probably be better to approach low to the ground so he could hide. Flying in from up high would be suicidal if the Torumekian troops were here. But low he might escape detection long enough to see if things were safe. And if things were risky, he would skirt the valley and head out to sea.
So he plunged from the sky, too serious to realize that he just broke his speed record. A few thousand feet from the ground, he began to gradually pull out. Within moments, he was flying over the dunes at a speed exceeding 200 leagues. He looked towards the horizon. He saw no smoke up ahead. As he approached the valley, he maintained his altitude as the land dropped towards the sea. He saw only farmers in their fields, and villagers approaching the central keep of the valley.
He continued on past the valley and turned around over the ocean to slow down. Within five minutes, he landed his kite on the roof of the only inn, the Horse and Claw. He kept track of all the inns he visited. This one had some of the better beer, and Maro, the owner, didn't mind gliders landing on the roof.
After a few minute attempt to calm down, Sirocco descended the roof's ladder and walked up to the front door. Things were still early enough so that the main hall remained free of guests.
"HEEELLLOOO Maro!!! 1 beer please!!!"
"Shi?? IS that you? You're early. I wasn't expecting you for another two weeks. Planting hasn't even finished yet, you know."
"Yeah. Something came up. What's the news?"
"Isn't that your department?" Maro chuckled, but stopped when he saw the grim look on his guest's face. He became more serious. "It's war, Shi. War."
"What???"
"The emperor invoked the ancient treaties. The Valley needs to send the gunship, supplies, and two windriders to join Kushana's army in an attack on the Doroks. The rendezvous is tomorrow."
"What about Penjite?"
"Shi, what about it? Did something happen? Is that why you are here early?"
"When I flew over it, I saw wormhandlers and troops in the street, and a corvette tried to chase me. Something is wrong, Maro. Something dreadfully wrong. The White Witch is up to something. I just don't know what."
"But why, Shi?? If the Emperor wanted to expand, he would take Semo or the Valley of Wind first. And while also fighting the Doroks? It doesn't make sense."
"Every action has a reason. Even the Emperor doesn't make random decisions. Why Penjite? Why a war? And why raise the Periphery? It's a dangerous move. And the White Witch? Kushana is the most dangerous person in Torumekia. I've met some of her officers. They BELIEVE in her Maro. They would die for her. But the cavalry lacks wings. They can't travel with her, so why does she travel without them? I need answers.
"Oh, Maro. Who are the windriders? Who will be flying with the gunship tomorrow?"
"No one knows. It hasn't been decided yet. HEY!!! Shi!! You still want your beer???", Maro shouted as Sirocco raced out the door, up the ladder and onto his kite. He pulled out the control strap (no sense in strapping in for a short flight), took off, and raced towards the valley's keep to talk to the chieftain. By the next morning, Sirocco was resting in the back of a barge, surrounded by old men, and heading off to war.
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Nicholas C. Weavernweaver@orodruin.cs.berkeley.edu
I'm DUI on the Information Superhighway
Squeamish Ossifrage (I just had to see if it would do something)
