I hadn’t been able to do anything at all that had helped.
Afterwards, the only person who’d been able to reach me was my best friend. He’d come into my room and sat beside me on the bed. Just sat, holding my hand.
On the bed now I shut my eyes tightly, my chest suddenly shuddering.
“No,” I said aloud. I was not going to do this. But everything crashed together in my head: Stan, drowning in his cockpit; my father, dying in a field. Peter scrambled away as I rolled over and clutched my pillow, muffling my tears in its softness.
People say it’s a release to cry, but this wasn’t like that. It felt raw, painful; I hated every sob. Peter curled up next to me, resigned that the stroking had stopped and settling for my body warmth instead.
I stiffened at the sound of Vera’s light, high-heeled tread coming down the hall. She hesitated outside my door, and I knew she’d heard – could almost see her pretty, freckled face screwed up as she decided what to do.
“Amity?” she called.
I didn’t move. “I thought you’d be staying over at Marcus’s,” I said finally, lifting my voice so it would carry. I didn’t realize I’d just given her an explanation – I wouldn’t have let myself cry otherwise – until I said it.
“Not tonight.” She cleared her throat. “Do you…want to talk?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? I know that…” She trailed off uncertainly. She wouldn’t mention Stan’s name again. No one would. Once you’d given someone their send-off, they were gone.
Better that way. Without a doubt.
“No, I don’t want to talk,” I said.
“All right,” Vera said, her voice faintly relieved. “Well…goodnight, then.”
I heard her go into her room. The slight thump, thump as she took off her shoes. Her telio went on, and the music started.
Love me in May,
Oh, please say you’ll stay.
I switched off my light and lay gazing into the darkness as the mindless lyrics drifted in. Moonlight turned the room soft-edged. I listened to the music and to Peter’s purring as he pressed against me…and as I finally fell asleep, I imagined couples holding each other and twirling on a dance floor, around and around until they could see only each other.
Chapter Four
The Cataclysm should have put an end to war, but it didn’t.
Nearly two millennia ago, four great powers simultaneously launched massive attacks. We’d learned in school about the mushroom-shaped clouds that bloomed on the horizon. Cities toppled, leaving only rubble and broken bodies.
“Cataclysm” was an understatement. The world was destroyed. Whatever technology that had built those bombs was thankfully lost.
Slowly, humanity struggled back to its feet through centuries of dark ages. Now, generations later, we were in a modern age again; shining new cities had arisen from the ashes. We had autos, moving pictures, airplanes. And we had something the ancients never dreamed of: peace.
Yet even with the ruins of the Cataclysm as a reminder…there had still been war until only ninety years ago.
My family originally came from Oceania. One of my ancestors there was named Louise, and as she was walking home from school one day, soldiers attacked. Troops swarmed through the streets; shots echoed; people were screaming, running for cover. Louise sprinted home, somehow making it there safely, but when she opened the door, everyone had been killed.
She saw her mother lying on the kitchen floor with her stomach sliced open. She saw her older brother’s body sitting slumped against the wall; it ended at the bloody stump of his neck. His head lay on his lap, staring at her. Her father was simply gone. Bloody scuff marks led out the door, as if he’d been struggling when he was dragged away.
“I don’t understand,” I’d whispered when my father told me this story. I was nine years old, and the words felt shrivelled as they left my mouth. “Why did the soldiers kill them?”
“They’d spoken out against the opposing forces.” My father was sitting on the side of my bed. His sleek dark hair, so like my own, fell across his forehead. His square, firm hands were a larger version of mine too.
I felt hot, like when I’d had a fever once. “Those soldiers were evil!”
“Were they?”
“Of course! They did terrible things!”
My father had smiled sadly. “But, Amity, that’s what happens in war. Louise’s side might not have acted any better, if they’d had the chance.”
I’d been so happy at first to spend time with my dad, but his story had been nothing like I expected. When I didn’t – couldn’t – reply, he went on.
Louise had fainted. When she came to, she was still in the house and still alone. She walked out the door, not shutting it behind her, not caring any more whether the soldiers killed her too. But the streets had gone strangely quiet. No one stopped her as she started through them.
Though she had no place to go, she kept walking until she left the city far behind. And without her realizing it, some small part of her decided that she still wanted to live. When she saw troops approaching, she hid in the bushes until they passed…and then started walking again.
She was thirteen years old.
The war Louise lived through eventually led to the Final War. It was long, bloody; the whole world took part. All across the far Pacific, countries were torn up into battlefields. Terrible gases were used; the fledgling technology of flight sent bombs screaming through the air. Tens of millions died.
And suddenly humanity realized that the path it was heading down had been taken before.
Louise was middle-aged by then. Along with many others, she told her story and warned, The ancients destroyed themselves. We must never do the same. It was the greatest protest movement the world had ever known. Louise was at its forefront, working tirelessly for decades.
Humanity listened.
The International Peace Treaty was signed by every nation. It took years for the current system to develop – lots of false starts, my father said – but now the World for Peace was as accepted as the rising sun. For the first time in history, a neutral organization governed all conflicts between nations. Military forces were found only in textbooks; weapons of mass destruction were forbidden.
For almost a century, disputes had been resolved by Peacefights: a single pilot against a single pilot. Skill against skill.
No more war. Ever.
I’d licked my lips as my father had finished, Louise’s story still haunting me. “Why do Peacefights have to be dangerous, though?” I blurted. “Why can’t opposing countries just play chess or something?”
Yet even as I’d asked I’d known the answer.
“Because people are violent at heart,” my father had said softly. “Without risk, it wouldn’t feel as if we’d really won something.” He stroked my hair.
“And you’re named Amity,” he added, his voice intent. “For ‘peace’. The fight for peace is in your blood.”
The daily pilots’ meeting was held in an old hangar, a vast space that smelled faintly of machine oil. When I got there the morning after Stan’s send-off, Commander Hendrix was already at the front: a tall man with a kind, careworn face. I’d felt star-struck when he’d first arrived on base to take command soon after I’d begun. He was one of the highest-rated Tier Ones in recent history, not to mention that he’d served with my dad.
“Good morning, pilots,” Hendrix said as we all took a seat, over a hundred of us, metal folding chairs scraping against the cement floor. He read out the roster. I didn’t have a fight that day and didn’t know whether I was sorry or glad.
Finally Hendrix pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I stiffened, bracing myself.
“A moment of silence for Stanley Chaplin, who was killed in combat yesterday,” he said quietly.
The hangar went still. I sat motionless, gazing at the neck of the pilot in front of me. I carefully studied the way his hair made li
ttle whorls against his skin and tried not to think about Stan’s laughing face…or about grasshoppers singing in a summer-hot field.
“Farewell, brother,” said Hendrix finally. I let out a breath.
A telio set crouched on a wooden stool at the front; Hendrix turned it on. As its small, round screen flickered into life, he said, “Pilots, stand.”
We rose. This was one of the few times of day when a programme was shown instead of just music playing. The whole world might be watching this now.
The World for Peace’s flag appeared on the screen, snapping in the breeze: two clasped hands encircled by a laurel wreath. The same flag hung at the front of the room now, with the Western Seaboard’s sunburst flag below. Music soared from the speakers. I stood tall as glimpses of all the bases were shown.
“Repeat after me,” said Hendrix, and our voices echoed through the hangar:
I swear to fight fairly,
I swear to defend my country to the best of my ability,
I swear to honour the sanctity of life.
At this moment all of the world’s Peacefighters were making the same vow from every base in this complex. Our voices faded. My spine felt straighter as I gazed at the two flags on the wall.
“Remember that you’re a part of something larger than yourselves,” Hendrix said. “The world thanks you for your service. Pilots dismissed.”
My Dove howled over the Western Seaboard practice fields. Fly straight at the other plane, fire, roll.
“Ha! Got you,” I muttered as field and sky swapped places. Another plane swung into view; I roared on one wing after it, the g-force a giddy weight in my stomach.
All that existed up here was adrenalin. I wanted to stay in the air for ever.
When I landed I heard Russ shouting. I glanced over as I climbed from the cockpit and saw him striding towards another pilot, bellowing, “Listen up, Ramirez! If you don’t start pulling out the way that machine is capable of, I swear I’m gonna—”
Despite everything, my team leader’s constant refrain made me smile. I hopped down from the wing.
Vera was in line at the canteen when I went to dinner later. She gave me a rueful look as I joined her. “Two losses already today. We could use a win.”
“I know,” I said, though Vera had no idea how right she was. I’d been catching up on the papers. My win against the European Alliance had been important, but Gunnison was our main opponent these days – and half his recent victories had chiselled away at our eastern land rights. He really did seem to have the stars on his side, the number of wins he managed. Some people actually believed that.
Vera slid her tray forward. Her voice brightened. “I saw on the board that you’ve got leave next week. Going home?”
I didn’t look up as I spooned peas onto my plate. “Just for three days,” I said.
We Western Seaboard pilots were lucky: our country bordered the huge complex of Peacefighting bases. But though visits home were easy, I didn’t see my family as often as I should have. That morning I’d requested leave on impulse.
This time it will be different, I promised myself. Please. I need it to be.
As Vera and I turned to find a table, I slowed abruptly. A cluster of new pilots sat nearby. Something went still inside me – though we’d been short a few even before Stan died. They arrived every few months, so clean and fresh-faced.
No one was talking to them. Not avoiding them, precisely…but combat fighting for real was a steep learning curve from training school. It usually felt safer to wait awhile before including someone.
Especially if they arrived the day after a send-off.
“So I guess you and Marcus will throw a wild party at the house while I’m gone,” I said to Vera as we moved through the crowded room.
My tone was too dry again; she didn’t get that it was a joke. She hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know…he’s gotten so serious lately. It’s not really fair to him, when…” She broke off, her face fleetingly vulnerable, and I knew how much the send-off had affected her, too.
“Never mind,” she said, and forced a smile. “Hey, maybe I’ll throw a party on my own and seduce Harlan.”
I made my voice jovial. “Good idea. He can teach you to belch and play poker.”
Vera giggled. “He does have his charms, it’s true.”
Just then, one of the new pilots rose from their table, an empty water glass in his hand. I stopped short, clutching my tray as he headed towards me. The breath left my chest.
Vera stood watching me in bewilderment. I couldn’t move; the canteen seemed to fade away. The new pilot had halted too, gaping at me.
He was tall, with shoulders he hadn’t quite grown into yet. His hair was dark blond, streaked with sun. Full lips, a strong chin. His nose was slightly crooked, thickened across the bridge from when he’d broken it falling off his bicycle once. I’d been with him that day; we’d gone to the pond to catch tadpoles. I couldn’t think, now, why we’d wanted them.
Good thing he broke that nose, or else he’d be too pretty, Ma had said once.
My thoughts tumbled crazily past. I stood rooted, gripping my tray.
The new pilot swallowed. “Amity?” he said softly.
“Collis,” I whispered in wonder. It broke the spell. “Collie!” I cried.
My tray hit the floor, scattering food and broken glass as I lunged at him. He caught me up; we hugged each other tightly. I was shaking. He even smelled the same – a warm, boyish scent that brought back sprawling on the living room rug listening to The Claw on the telio; the time we’d run away from home together; the way I’d come downstairs at dawn sometimes and find him already there in the kitchen, eating almond butter sandwiches and grinning at me, his tanned legs swinging from a chair.
Our first – our only – kiss.
Finally I drew back, staring at him. The canteen had gone silent, everyone watching. Collie looked dazed. “I didn’t – I didn’t expect to see you here,” he stammered.
My rush of joy was fading into confusion. “What happened to you?” I burst out. “Why didn’t you write?”
He winced. “I did.”
“You didn’t!”
“All right, I…” He glanced over his shoulder at the other new pilots and hesitated. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “It…just seemed best.”
“Best?” I echoed. At my feet, my broken glass of milk had pooled around roast chicken slices and peas, like a white lake with islands in it. Why was I noticing this?
Collie’s expression was pained. “Amity…”
“When you left, we both—” I broke off, remembering his hands gripping mine. They won’t keep us apart, Amity. I promise. He’d only recently grown taller than me then – we’d only recently started to move from best friends to something else.
Collie seemed to become aware of the stares. He nodded at a neighbouring table. “How’s it going?” he said brusquely. A few mumbles as the pilots looked away.
“Isn’t there a better place we could talk?” he asked me in an undertone.
I grabbed his arm and we walked through the canteen. A low buzz of conversation started up.
I shoved through the swinging doors and we stepped outside. The day had turned overcast; a chilly wind from the bay bit at the air. I leaned against the outside wall and crossed my arms tightly over my chest.
“Talk,” I said.
Collie glanced around us. “Here?”
“It’ll do.”
There was a bench against the wall; after a pause, Collie dropped down onto it. My mind kept trying to reconcile him with the lanky fourteen-year-old I’d last seen, whose cheek had been silk-smooth when I’d shyly touched it. Now there was a golden shadow on his jaw where he’d shaved recently. He rubbed it with one hand.
“All right,” he said. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m a Peacefighter now,” he said. “The same as you, apparently.”
Collie’s eyes had always
had a trick to them: sometimes blue, sometimes green. They looked very blue now, like pieces of sky. He sat taking in my face as if he were trying to reconcile me with old memories, too.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here,” he added quietly.
My throat tightened, recalling my father, landing his plane near the hay bales while Collie and I ran towards him.
“No. You shouldn’t be,” I said. “You know it’s all I ever wanted.”
As if thinking about something else, Collie frowned at his hands. “It wasn’t, but I can see how you came to do it,” he said.
“What are you talking about? I’ve always wanted to be a Peacefighter!”
Collie straightened a little. “Amity. No, you didn’t. You wanted to be a transport pilot, remember? You said that you loved flying but didn’t want to use it to fight, and—”
A chill touched me. “That’s not true.”
“Of course it’s true.”
And in fact, it was coming back: Collie and me lying on our stomachs beside the river, setting scraps of pine bark off down its currents. I’d put twigs on mine, pretending that the bark pieces were planes and the sticks my cargo.
Collie was watching me. “You remember now, don’t you?”
I sank slowly onto the bench beside him and stared out at the dusty road lined with palm trees, recalling the way I used to feel so guilty that I had a name like Amity and didn’t want to fly for peace. That’s how Dad always described it: flying for peace.
I sighed. “It’s all I want now, though,” I said. “It really is, Collie. After Dad died…” I couldn’t finish.
“I know.” His voice was soft. He put his arm around me and looked down, his expression troubled. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder felt so familiar – right in a way that other hands touching me had never been. I hated knowing that, yet I didn’t pull away.
“Why didn’t you write?” I asked.
His fingers tightened on my arm. “I started to,” he said. “Please believe me, Amity. I started to so many times. But, you know, Dad had just made us move, and Goldie was worse than ever…”
Broken Sky Page 4