Black Moon

by L. A. Weatherly

  Sitting with Hal in the cafe, the two of us read the passage over and over. “Holy hell, I can’t believe it,” Hal said.

  Still staring at the story, I pushed my hands through my hair and gave a shaky laugh. “They’re really gone. For ever.”

  Hal looked as dazed as I felt. He took a swig of his coffee and glanced down, playing with the mug. “I still want to know why Dad did it though,” he said finally.

  Sympathy stirred. I’d been thinking of our father too – the man who’d put all of this in motion. We hadn’t heard anything else from Ma on the subject.

  “I know,” I said.

  Hal had on flying gear; he’d turned sixteen in February and was training to be a pilot in his spare time. Part of me hoped he never made it, though I wouldn’t have told him that on pain of death. Having two people I loved in the air during battles…I could barely think of it.

  But gazing at the news story, I still felt something in me ease. The worst part of our father’s legacy was gone.

  All around us, New Manhattan had erupted in celebration at the news. The war couldn’t last much longer now, everyone said to each other. Though Kay Pierce kept fighting, it was only a matter of time.

  “I just wish it would end before Harlan gets back,” muttered Vera. We were in the locker room. I glanced at her, and she gave a small, troubled smile. “He’ll be here next week, with luck.”

  I slowly closed my locker door. Harlan had had complications from his wound – a secondary infection had set in, and for a while around January things had looked bad for him again. Vera had managed to go up to Nova Scotia twice to see him. For the last few months he’d been solidly on the mend. I knew from his infrequent letters how stir-crazy he’d been going.

  But two weeks after taking Pierce’s bomb factory, the air raid sirens were starting to blare with regularity again. We’d had two pilot deaths already this week.

  I touched Vera’s arm. “It’ll be good to see him,” I said finally.

  “I’m telling you, Vancour, your mother’s a saint,” Harlan said.

  He’d arrived on a transport plane just in time for the worst fighting we’d seen since the previous November. Vera had been terrified at him going up; he hadn’t flown in months.

  No time for retraining. He’d just had to get up there.

  Now, a week later, we were in the lobby of the Grand with Ingo, waiting for Vera. We’d had seven raids in five days. This was the first time that we’d been able to sign out to go someplace even just in the pilots’ radius, and despite my weariness I felt hyped-up; giddy with the release of it.

  Hal lounged against one of the columns; he was meeting Percy in the hotel bar soon. He and I exchanged a slight smile at Harlan’s comment. I’d written to tell Ma that Harlan would be in Nova Scotia, and she’d promised to visit him.

  “‘Saint’ might be a little strong,” Hal said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Growing up with a saint sounds exhausting,” said Ingo.

  “Saint,” repeated Harlan firmly. “Twice a week, like clockwork. And she brought cookies.” Reverence tinged his tone.

  “She makes good cookies,” I admitted.

  Harlan was a little thinner now, not quite as burly, but essentially the same old Harlan. “And I’ve got a surprise for Vera too,” he drawled, running his hand over his brown hair. He smirked at me. “Your mother may just have given me a few dance lessons.”

  Hal grinned; he’d seen Vera on the dance floor. “Not jitterbugging.”

  “Nah, I wasn’t a well man. But I can cut a mean foxtrot.”

  “Maybe your mother would give me a few lessons,” said Ingo to me. He had on his green-flecked sports jacket; a crisp white shirt.

  I smiled. “I can give you any lessons you need.”

  “Why does that sound dirty?” demanded Harlan.

  “On that note…” Hal glanced at his watch and straightened. “See you later. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That gives us plenty of leeway,” I called after him.

  “Yeah, look who’s talking,” he threw back.

  When Vera stepped out of the elevator, she wore a bright red dress and lipstick to match. “Now, that was worth waiting for,” said Harlan as she reached us.

  “Why, thank you, kind sir.” She took his arm.

  Outside, the afternoon sun painted the buildings golden. Vera said, “All right, Ingo, where are we going?” The two of them conferred as we headed down the sidewalk – they were both real jazz aficionados, and kept track of who was playing at what club.

  Harlan took my arm, holding me back a little. “Glad I was wrong about the guy,” he said in a low voice, nodding towards Ingo. Once this past week, still buzzing with adrenalin from a raid, the four of us had sat up drinking and talking, with Ingo playing the second-hand guitar he’d bought in London Village.

  I smiled as I studied the line of Ingo’s shoulders. “Me too,” I said.

  As we entered the club, Harlan said casually, “So what kind of place is this?”

  “Jazz in the basement, dancing up on the second floor,” said Ingo, just as casual.

  Harlan put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Hey, let’s go upstairs,” he said. “I feel like taking a turn or two on the dance floor.”

  Vera had been rooting for something in her clutch purse; her head jerked up. A smile bloomed across her face. “Really?”

  Ingo and I went to check out the jazz, leaving Vera doing a slow number with Harlan. As raucous chords blared in the dark, smoky room, I tried to persuade Ingo to go kick the guitar player off and take over.

  “Seriously,” I said, lifting my voice as we sat close together at the tiny table. “You’re much better.”

  “You’re great for my ego, you know.” Ingo grinned and kissed me. “Even if you’re tone-deaf.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Hum middle C for me, please.”

  “See? You know these things.” I jokingly jostled his arm. “Come on. We can take him.”

  “‘The Jazz Revolt’,” mused Ingo. “No, that’s awful. Wait – ‘The Great Guitar Skirmish’.”

  “Yes! Or—”

  We both looked up as a woman appeared at our table: middle-aged, carrying a cocktail. She leaned down.

  “My dear, I just want to say how brave you are,” she said, her mouth close to my ear to be heard. “It must have been so difficult when he had his accident.”

  I stared blankly and then got the implication: I must have been with Ingo before his face was burned. I couldn’t have fallen for him otherwise.

  “It was difficult for my boyfriend, not me,” I said deliberately. “I barely knew him then.”

  She glanced doubtfully at the right half of Ingo’s face. “Well…you’re very brave anyway.” She patted my hand and kept on towards the bar.

  “Have I told you how much I love your bravery?” said Ingo after a pause.

  “Stupid woman,” I muttered.

  My fist was tight. Ingo had his forearms propped on the table. He ducked his head and kissed my clenched fingers. He started to say something else; we both started as the lights came on. All at once the room looked shabby, too smoky.

  “Oh no,” I breathed. The music stopped. We could hear the bleating of sirens from outside. The bar echoed with scraping chairs as people started jumping up.

  Ingo grabbed my hand and we battled our way out. We found Harlan and Vera in the lobby; a minute later we were all outside. Traffic had stopped. A crowd swelled at the subway entrance as people streamed into the depths.

  We broke into a run, Vera and I hastily yanking off our heels. As the four of us pelted down the sidewalk, a warden shouted, “Get in the shelter!”

  “We’re pilots!” I called back, and the warden waved us on.

  “Run faster, in that case!” he yelled, and even with the drone of approaching engines, it was still funny.

  “My father always told me I shouldn’t be a pilot,” called out Vera,
her eyes laughing. “You know what? I should have been a race-car driver!”

  “You still could!” bellowed Harlan. “I’ll come to your meets and—”

  The world lurched with a roar. I screamed as I was hurled to the ground; a second later I felt Ingo on top of me, shielding me with his body. The patter of flying debris – screams. I lay breathing hard, smelling Ingo’s aftershave.

  When he sat up, a piece of dusty brick slid from his back. “Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

  I was bruised and sore. It didn’t matter. “Yes, but you’re bleeding!” I touched his forehead.

  Ingo swiped his hand impatiently over the wound. “I’m fine.” He glanced quickly at the sky as we scrambled up. We could see the battle raging now – Tess would need all hands on deck.

  The bombed building had been a stationers’ shop; pens and paper littered the road. Ingo cupped his hands to his mouth. “Harlan!” he called over the sirens and the whine of planes. “Vera!”

  I saw a familiar big form sprawled in the rubble. “There!” I gasped.

  We raced over. My heart felt caged in my throat. “Harlan!” I cried, falling to my knees beside him.

  He slowly sat up. Rubble fell from his jacket. I started to smile in relief…and then I saw.

  Vera.

  She lay without moving, her eyes open. Harlan had shielded her as Ingo had shielded me. From the look of the wound at her temple, it had already been too late.

  “No,” I whispered, and felt Ingo grip my arm.

  “Vera,” said Harlan, touching her. “Vera?” He shook her shoulders lightly. Her head fell to one side, dust and blood in her carefully-arranged hair.

  “Medic!” shouted Harlan.

  Kneeling too, Ingo felt for her pulse. He was pale as he gently let go of Vera’s wrist. “It’s too late. I’m sorry.”

  “We need a goddamn medic!” Harlan bellowed, twisting to look behind him.

  I couldn’t stop staring at Vera’s eyes. So blue. “Harlan…she’s gone.”

  “No, she fucking is not!” Harlan roared at me. “Get back to base! Both of you! Get out of here and fight! Medic!”

  Another explosion. I cringed and glanced upwards at the swirling battle – dozens of Scorps and Doves both.

  Two wardens and a medic rushed over. “You people need to get in the shelter!”

  “We’re pilots,” said Ingo faintly, standing up.

  “Get to base or get in the shelter!”

  “Somebody help her!” Harlan was shouting. “Can’t you see she…she…” Suddenly he faltered. He half-fell back onto the rubble and covered his eyes with one hand as his shoulders heaved. The wardens helped him up. The medic crouched briefly over Vera.

  I felt dizzy. Ingo stood statue-still, his fists helpless at his sides. We looked at each other.

  Overhead, our planes were needed.

  “We’d better go,” I whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t. When we reached the airfield, it was pulsing with action – fitters scrambling over Doves, pilots racing towards their planes. Engines started up, one after the other, the propellers bursting into life.

  We couldn’t take the time to change. Still in my dress and tattered stockings, I sprinted for my plane. Hal was in the cockpit, starting it up. He climbed down in a flurry of blue jumpsuit. “Where the hell’s your flight gear?”

  “No time,” I said curtly.

  My helmet was in the Dove. Another fitter rushed up with a parachute and helped me strap it on. Up in the air, I lost sight of Ingo’s plane. The Scorps were on us almost immediately, their spiky symbols taunting. The bomber they protected cruised above.

  I wanted to annihilate it. Gs tugged at me as I fought for height. A Scorp appeared in my mirrors; I stomped on the right rudder and the skyscrapers spun. The island’s southern tip jutted out into the bay as the bomber tried to reach the docks.

  “No, you will not get our ships,” I muttered. The Scorp was still after me. Fine, you first. I darted into the clouds, banked hard, and came out above it. The Scorp swung back and forth in the crosshairs, my cockpit vibrating around me.

  I fired and pulled out. My pulse spiked with hard joy as flames erupted across the Scorp’s fuselage. It went spinning down into the bay, black smoke curling. Others were already on the bomber and it was going high – higher – retreating.

  Even when the Scorps were just departing dots and the bomber had been chased away, I wanted to stay in the sky. If I landed, I’d have to think of Vera.

  Finally I brought my Dove in, my chest made of lead beneath my straps. As I landed, the Dove ahead of me was just trundling to a halt. Relief filled me as I glimpsed the “91” on its tail: the last two digits of Ingo’s call number.

  I came to a stop and switched off. The propellers slowly stilled. In the sudden silence I undid my straps and slid open my hood. My weak leg gave a twinge as I dropped down onto the wing – slippery under my torn stockings – and glanced towards Ingo’s plane.

  The Scorp screamed out of nowhere – flying low, strafing everything in its path. Bullet fire whistled and thudded.

  I gave a yelp; my feet shot out from under me. I slammed against the wing and then hit the ground – scrambled under my Dove just as the Scorp passed over again, its shadow like an attacking hawk. Holes peppered across my plane in staccato whines.

  Shouts – the roar of the engine, fading now.

  Had he gotten my fuel tank? I lunged out from under my Dove and ran until I was clear. Ingo. Panicked, I jogged to a stop and looked towards his plane. A dark-haired figure emerged from beneath the wing.

  The “91” Dove exploded in a fireball of noise and colour.

  “No!” I screamed. I started running, my skirt churning around my legs as shrapnel pattered to the ground. The heat from the blast slapped me and with a cry I had to stop, shielding my face. The figure had been thrown clear.

  Not Ingo. Hal.

  I jerked into motion again, ignoring the heat. I dropped to my knees beside him. “Hal…Hal…”

  My brother lay sprawled, eyes closed, a rough scrape on his face. His legs were raw meat and blood. A white stripe gleamed through the right one and it hit me that the stripe was bone and the world swam.

  So much blood. The coppery smell gagged at my throat. I frantically tried to put my hands over the wounds but the wounds were everywhere.

  “Hal! Hang on!” I gasped. “Please.”

  I was shuddering. My hands were slick and red. He didn’t move. He wasn’t moving. I heard a low keening and realized it was me.

  “Amity!” Ingo appeared, panting, just ahead of the medics.

  He crouched hastily and felt for Hal’s pulse, then gripped my arms. “He’s alive. He’s alive.”

  The medics hefted Hal onto a stretcher, too fast to be gentle. He came half-conscious and screamed, his face a terrible ashen colour. In a confused rush I jogged along beside them, clutching Hal’s hand. I told him it would be all right, just fine, don’t worry. There was no room for me in the ambulance because there were other wounded too, and I struggled to go in, shouting at them.

  Ingo wrapped his arms tightly around me. His voice was hoarse. “Amity…shh…shh…”

  The ambulance drove away. The airfield felt deathly silent. As Ingo still held me I collapsed, crying, against his chest. He stroked my hair and then helped me upright.

  “Come on, we have to get to the hospital,” he whispered.

  We sat in the waiting room and I stared down at the cold cup of coffee that I hadn’t been able to drink. I’d washed the blood off my hands but could still see it.

  I put the coffee down and it blurred in my vision. “He has to be all right,” I murmured.

  Ingo looked as pale and drawn as I felt. He put his arm around me without speaking. I leaned against him, my throat tight and aching. First Vera, and now…

  “I think I could do with a platitude for a change,” I said finally.

 
Ingo was silent for a long moment. “I hope he’ll be fine,” he said. “He’s young and healthy and in good hands.”

  “I want more than hope.”

  “I can’t give you that. But I think the odds are on his side.” Ingo gently rubbed my shoulder, his lips against my hair. “I’ve never lied to you, my friend,” he whispered. “I’m not starting now.”

  Our fingers found each other and linked tightly together. Though part of me just wanted comfort, the fact that Ingo remained exactly who I knew him to be gave strength on its own.

  “I thought it was you at first,” I admitted.

  He straightened a little, looking down at me, his dark eyes concerned.

  I swallowed. “The…plane’s call letters. I thought they were yours.”

  “No, it wasn’t my plane,” Ingo said, and I nodded. At some point in the confusion I’d glimpsed the wrong call letters with the same final digits lying in the wreckage.

  I thought again of the fact that we’d never spoken of the future. Not once, in over six months together. If we both lived it felt inevitable that we’d share one…but saying this out loud seemed like tempting fate.

  I shut my eyes and pressed close to him. He held me.

  Neither of us moved again until a doctor appeared and told us what they’d done to Hal.

  Through the covers of his hospital bed, I could see the shape of my brother’s left leg, bulky with bandages. His right ended mid-thigh. Below that, the covers lay flat.

  “I was hoping we could at least save the knee,” the doctor had said heavily when he’d come to speak to us. “It was just too damaged. There was nothing left to work with.”

  He’s alive, I reminded myself harshly. Nothing else should have mattered…but I had a sudden memory of him walking across the airfield laughing with Percy, and my head felt as if it might split in two.

  He was barely sixteen.

  The hospital room was silent. Hal was still sleeping; so was his roommate. I pulled a chair close to my brother’s bedside. I forced myself to look at the flat sheet. I would not let on to Hal, ever, how much it horrified and saddened me.