Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  Russ knocked back a shot. He’d fallen silent as he watched. His expression was troubled, faintly resentful…yet suddenly the odd sense came over me that this was a celebration drink.

  I stared at him.

  “What?” Russ said, glancing over at me. He’d loosened his tie and taken off his jacket. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up, contrasting with his dark, muscular forearms. He looked the same as always.

  I shook my head. I’d had too much to drink already. “Nothing,” I said, and downed the rest of my whiskey. “Maybe we should order some food.”

  Though I thought I’d pushed the strange moment away, on some level it refused to leave.

  Russ stayed on in the bar. Hours later, walking back to the streetcar stop, I passed the speak we’d gone to the night of Stan’s send-off. I stopped and gazed at its glossy black door.

  On impulse I went inside. I walked slowly down the narrow stairs. With no band playing yet, it was a different world from the dimly-lit, pulsing place I remembered.

  In the corner was the table where I’d seen Russ sitting with two other men. I stood looking at it.

  “Can I help you, miss?” asked a waiter.

  I came back to myself with a jolt. “No,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I’m just tired, I told myself as I rode the streetcar home. I’m imagining things that aren’t there.

  But I felt cold inside. Unwelcome thoughts had started to flower – wild, rampant vines that I couldn’t control. Once I got home I tried to relax but it was impossible; I paced our small living room as Peter lay sleeping on the sofa.

  Russ’s smile when I’d gone into the courtroom… I knew now what it had reminded me of: he’d had that same tense expression in the speak, when Harlan and I had gone up to his table. And those men he’d been talking to – what had they given him? My memory of that night was fuzzy, but I thought I recalled Russ tucking something into his jacket pocket.

  It could have been anything. A cigar, probably. The thought hammering through my brain didn’t even make sense, because Russ had been thrilled when I won that first fight. He’d given me one of his terrible stogies.

  Images came anyway, one after another: Russ snapping his hat brim jauntily into place this afternoon. His initial silence when I’d gotten the burning plane down. The Russ I thought I knew should have been exuberant – scooping me into a hug, shouting a hosanna to the sky.

  No. I dropped onto the sofa, clutching my head. Russ was my team leader. Things like this just didn’t happen in the World for Peace; it had been run on the honour system for generations. We cared about what we did. A memory rushed back – dozens of new Peacefighter pilots, all in our dress uniforms, our right hands raised:

  I swear to serve the World for Peace and all it stands for…

  Russ, with his strained smile. He’d told me that my air bottle had been hit, even though I hadn’t felt it happen.

  I’d believed him.

  Blood beat at my temples. I jumped up from the sofa and yanked on my shoes; I grabbed our flashlight from the kitchen. As I raced from the house, I was thankful that Vera wasn’t home to ask questions. I was sure I was going crazy.

  But I had to see the bullet holes for myself.

  There was a scrapyard where they put the wreckage of planes that were past repair. I’d never been there but knew it was on the eastern side of the Heat, which was a kind of no-man’s-land. I took a streetcar as far as I could and then walked for over a mile. It was dusk now and the paved road was empty, slicing through an avenue of bedraggled-looking palm trees. Wind whispered through the long, dry grass.

  I couldn’t believe I was here. I couldn’t believe I was thinking this.

  Finally I saw the chain-link fence; it stretched off across the fields. Inside was a huge cluttered lot. In the fading light I could make out the shadowy hulks of hundreds of planes, their jutting wings creating an alien landscape.

  The gate was locked. I found a spot dark with shadow and climbed over, hooking my fingers into the chain-link diamonds. The fence rattled as I dropped to the ground, and I ducked behind a nearby shed.

  There was only the pounding of my pulse and the ocean’s distant murmur. Finally I exhaled and stepped out into the yard. I shone my light over the nearest heap of mangled Firedoves. All right, my plane had to be here somewhere…I just had to find it.

  The planes were organized by country, with rough paths between each section. I walked down one dark path and then another, shining my flashlight on the Doves’ call letters. They flashed into view, ghostly and forgotten. Shards of broken glass glittered where my light fell on them.

  The moon travelled slowly up through the jagged palm fronds. The night air grew cooler, prickling at my arms. Finally my flashlight started picking out call letters beginning with WS.

  No sign of my plane. I circled the Western Seaboard section twice as the moon crept higher. Was my plane even here? Angry at the panic seeping in, I swept my flashlight wildly, searching in great arcs – and then let out a fierce, relieved breath as the blackened call letters WSO67 suddenly swung into view.

  It wasn’t at ground level. It had been dumped on top of two other planes: a tangle of wings and shattered cockpits. Holding my flashlight tightly in my armpit, I began to climb, ignoring the kick of pain from my ribs.

  The first plane creaked when I lifted myself onto its wing, but remained stable. I stepped onto the side of the cockpit and jumped to grasp the second plane’s wing. As I clambered onto it the world tilted sideways with a groan. I froze, my fingertips icy.

  This is insane, I thought.

  I could see my plane above me in the moonlight, its back panel hidden by the angle of the wing. The answer was there – only feet away. I balanced myself carefully, and then jumped again. The second plane groaned as I left it; I got my leg over the third wing’s edge and pulled myself up.

  It was the same Firedove I’d flown so many times, now half-burned, unrecognizable. I was too taut to feel any sadness. I gripped the open hood, scanning the plane’s port side fervently with my flashlight.

  Nothing.

  Steeling myself, I stepped into the charred, smoke-smelling cockpit and then out the other side. The wing here sloped upwards, pressing me hard against the plane. I leaned over and shone my flashlight onto the panel behind the cockpit.

  There were two bullet holes.

  I gasped out loud. But maybe I was only seeing them because I wanted them to be there. I craned far to the side and ran my hand over the holes, over and over, digging my fingers into them.

  They were real: two round bullet holes whose crisp metal edges had been charred in the fire. The piece of panel was now attached only by a single bolt. Struggling to keep my balance, I swung it open. When I shone the light in, my air bottle had a bullet hole, too; its edges glinted in the light. The bottle’s nozzle had been blown off, just like Russ had said.

  I felt limp with relief. It had been ridiculous to come out here – risk breaking my neck on this teetering pile of scrap. I creaked the panel shut. Had I really doubted my team leader because of a drunken half-memory? Because his smile was too tense? He’d made the same vow as me.

  I climbed down. Maybe there was still plenty to worry about in the world, but all I could do was my job. And I would, as good as before.

  No.

  Better.

  Chapter Twelve

  The same day that Kay read the results of the Western Seaboard pilot’s appeal, a knock came at her door.

  It was late; she’d been getting ready for bed. She went rigid, staring at the door in apprehension. There was nothing for it. She pulled her bathrobe tightly around herself and opened the door a crack.

  Malcolm Skinner stood there, looking thin and hollow-cheeked. He pulled off his hat; his sparse hair clung across his skull. “Let me in,” he said.

  Kay did so and then stood fiddling with the tie of her bathrobe. “Would you like some coffee, sir?” she asked. “Or—”

  “This isn’t a s
ocial call,” Skinner snapped. He sat on the sofa and opened a briefcase. “Sit,” he ordered.

  Kay slowly lowered herself to the edge of her armchair. Somehow the Chief Astrologer was more frightening here, in her own territory, than he’d been in the small, stained room in the basement of the Zodiac.

  “Celia Lloyd has been found Discordant and sent to a correction camp,” said Skinner. “As for the Western Seaboard pilot you chose for us…” He narrowed his gaze. The odd bald patch on his eyebrow was larger now – or maybe it was a trick of the light.

  Kay bit back a mewling plea and straightened her spine. “I’m confident that the Grand Cross chart was the correct choice.”

  And incredibly, Skinner inclined his head. “It seemed unfortunate at first, but going through the official appeal process has put an extra seal of validation on the EA’s clean win. Mr Gunnison’s most pleased.”

  Kay managed not to gasp out loud with relief. “I’m so glad,” she said. Yet she still felt nervous. Skinner wouldn’t have come here just to tell her that they were pleased.

  “I believe I will have some coffee,” he said.

  Kay went to the kitchen, where she gripped the counter hard with both hands. “Calm,” she ordered herself in a mutter. “Calm.”

  Ten minutes later, Skinner blew fussily at the hot coffee in his cup. “You haven’t been seeing clients,” he said. It wasn’t a question. So she had been watched.

  “No,” said Kay. She took a sip of coffee and forced her fingers to stay relaxed around the cup’s handle.

  Skinner reached into his briefcase. He took out a thick file, and then two more. He stacked them neatly on the coffee table, lining up their edges.

  “Your duties,” he announced. “You’re now an official astrologer of the Twelve Year Plan.”

  Kay somehow arranged her expression to one showing only surprise and pleasure. “Really?” she exclaimed. “But I’m not even a state astrologer!”

  “Nevertheless. Mr Gunnison has been very interested in your input.”

  Kay’s mind was whirring. This could be her salvation or her death. But if she could get it right – could play Gunnison at his own game and win—

  “I’m extremely honoured, sir,” she said after a pause. “I’ll want to get started immediately, of course.” She cleared her throat. “And if I may say so…it’s always best to have the client present.”

  Skinner looked shocked. “You mean Mr Gunnison? Impossible.”

  Kay started to protest that he’d get much better results. She caught herself; astrology was supposed to be dispassionate.

  “I like the personal touch,” she said.

  Skinner sneered. “How sweet. But no.” He drained his coffee and rose. “I’ll expect you at headquarters first thing tomorrow. Goodnight, Miss Pierce.”

  After he left, Kay sat staring at the files, almost too frightened to touch them. The apartment seemed to be pressing in on her. She sprang up and hurried into the bedroom; she blindly threw on some clothes and then grabbed her coat.

  The walk she took was brisk, unseeing, her footsteps echoing against the sidewalks. Topeka was a metropolis of millions, surpassed only by New Chicago. Even this late, it was pulsing. Kay passed brightly-lit moving-picture palaces; state astrologers’ signs flashing the Harmony symbol; a building with a bas-relief of Guns helping citizens.

  Finally she reached the broad expanse of the Bradford Bridge and stopped near its central arch. She leaned against the railing, gazing down at the dark, churning depths of the Souri River. The bridge’s cables hummed in the wind.

  People jumped from here, sometimes. The papers always portrayed the suicides as deranged, crazy…but almost everyone in the Central States understood the real reasons.

  Behind her, traffic rumbled. Seeing a passer-by duck his head against some sight, Kay turned and saw a Shadowcar glide past, its tall, rounded lines like a ghostly hearse.

  She let out a short, fierce breath.

  In the black market underworld, it was common knowledge how frequently one of the Twelve Year astrologers got arrested and sent to a correction camp. Gunnison tended to go with the astrological interpretations he liked best…and woe betide any astrologer who got it wrong.

  The Grand Cross pilot that Kay had chosen for the Peacefight had been Skinner’s favoured choice. She’d seen it in his face. To last as a Twelve Year astrologer she had to see Gunnison’s face…or else she might as well flag down the next Shadowcar she saw and climb inside.

  No, Kay thought, fists clenched. Never.

  The Twelve Year astrologers met in a boardroom below the Pisces dome – far from the Libra building where Kay had once been held prisoner. The soaring view showed three of the Zodiac’s other domes and downtown Topeka beyond. Carved wooden panelling depicted astrological figures. A mirror glinted across an entire wall.

  Kay and seven other Twelve Year astrologers sat around a long table with Malcolm Skinner at its head.

  “Page four in your packets,” instructed Skinner. “Now, this chart is of particular interest…”

  Kay’s gaze flicked to her reflection: careful waves of upswept hair; a new dress with a neat row of buttons. She looked unruffled, businesslike. She was glad of that…because the rumour was that it was a one-way mirror and John Gunnison sat on the other side.

  The thought terrified her. Yet she fervently hoped it was true: if so, Gunnison might become intrigued by her, want to meet her in person. So far, she could see no other way of getting close enough to read his body language.

  Kay studied the chart Skinner was discussing. The mirror story had to be only a rumour, she thought tensely. Gunnison wouldn’t have time to spy on his astrologers. No, but he could have a lackey do it for him.

  A lackey would have to do.

  Since her appointment as a Twelve Year astrologer a week ago, Kay had mostly kept quiet, modelling her responses on the other astrologers’. In no time she’d realized how backbiting and frightened they all were.

  Four empty seats gaped around the table: the only evidence left of astrologers too stupid to learn how to play the game.

  Kay hadn’t slept much recently; she’d been obsessively reading the files Skinner had given her. Though the contents left the ultimate goal of “Gunnison’s Dozen” shrouded, the gist was clear: power.

  The John Gunnison portrayed in the files was a patient man. When it came to the Peacefights, for instance, he’d at first held back from controlling them, apart from a few crucial conflicts…such as the fight that had won the civil war, allowing the Central States to split off on their own.

  Kay had gaped at the words, then reread them. The civil war Peacefight had been fixed. Now that she knew, it seemed obvious. Of course Gunnison wouldn’t have left that fight to chance.

  In the decade following, though, he’d mostly left the Peacefights alone. He’d instead cultivated people sympathetic to him – manoeuvred them into key positions in other countries and then seen them rise slowly through the ranks. Numerous countries would now be horrified to learn how many of their high-ranking citizens were Gunnison loyalists: senators, councillors, CEOs of major companies.

  With this support system in place, Gunnison had only recently started manipulating the Peacefights in earnest. The elaborate system of Peacefight wins, losses and kickbacks wouldn’t be obvious to anyone without serious digging.

  And every single manipulated fight supported the aims of the thickest file.

  Its contents had been shocking, mesmerizing. That first night Kay had stayed up until four a.m., hardly able to believe what she was reading. When she’d finally gone to bed, all she could think of was one name: Rita Pulaski.

  Rita had been Kay’s neighbour years ago; she’d disappeared when they were both seven. Kay recalled knocking on her door, asking if Rita could come out to play. Mrs Pulaski’s eyes had been red-rimmed.

  “Rita doesn’t live here any more, Kay,” she’d said. “She’s gone away.”

  Kay had taken a step back. “I�
�I’m sorry,” she’d stammered, responding to Mrs Pulaski’s eyes rather than the words.

  Rita had preyed uneasily on Kay’s mind for a long time, but as no grown-up seemed to think that action was needed, eventually she’d forgotten her. Until the file marked Operation Mars.

  Mars, the ruler of Aries, the first sign of the zodiac…and the ancient god of war. The year Gunnison took office, six- and seven-year-olds from all over the CS had been taken from their parents. The families had been told only that it was an honour; the highest accolade that the newly-formed state could give.

  The children, now adults, had been in training for twelve years.

  As Skinner droned on, Kay readied herself. It was vital that she steer the conversation that she was about to spark in the way that would be most advantageous to her. She managed not to look at the mirror again…but prayed someone was watching who would tell Gunnison of her fire, her competence.

  “Yes, we can take that as a given,” said Skinner in response to someone’s question. “Now, if we next turn our attention to—”

  “Excuse me,” said Kay clearly. “When are we going to attack the Western Seaboard?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Where’s Edwards?” I asked in surprise. I’d just gone out to my plane; it was my first fight after being put back on the roster.

  My new fitter, a tall guy named Regan, lifted his voice over the sound of an incoming Dove. “I think he’s working on Tier Threes now.”

  Fitters got reassigned sometimes, but it made me feel as if I’d been grounded for months instead of just four weeks. I pushed away my faint wistfulness and climbed into the cockpit. All that mattered now was doing my job.

  The loss of our oil rights had hit the news soon after I lost my appeal. I read all I could about it, hating every word. People had started panic-buying fuel; food prices had rocketed. It was better than war, I knew that…but oh, why had I had to lose that fight?