Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  Three hours later, Collie was in the sickbay.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I’d just sat down for a required training film. The door to the lecture room opened; the messenger’s gaze flew straight to me. “Miss Vancour is needed immediately for a fight.”

  I grabbed my things and hurried from the room. “What’s going on?” I asked as we headed down the hallway.

  “One of the other pilots is sick. You’ve got to take his Tier One.”

  “What?” I stopped short. “But Collie’s fine! I saw him just a few hours ago.”

  “It’s some kind of vertigo; he can’t stand up without vomiting. Miss Vancour, the fight’s in less than an hour—”

  “Vertigo?”

  The messenger looked startled. “That’s what they said.”

  I stood there, staring. Collie had the steadiest sense of balance in the world. When we were kids he used to show off with it, practically dancing across fallen logs. He’d never suffered from vertigo in his life.

  My hands went cold. “I’ve got to see Collie first,” I said, and started towards the doors.

  “But I was supposed to bring you straight to Commander Hendrix!”

  I was almost running now. “Ten minutes – that’s all!” I called back.

  I expected an argument to get in to see Collie. Instead the sickbay nurse hastened me down the corridor. “He’s been asking for you,” she said. “He seems very distressed.”

  As we reached a door I could hear Collie’s voice: “I’ve got to see her! You don’t understand—”

  “Mr Reed, please calm down—”

  The nurse swung open the door. Collie was struggling weakly with a young aide, trying to sit up. When he saw me, relief flooded his pale features; he sagged against the bed.

  “Amity,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to talk to you…”

  “Collie!” I rushed to sit on the bed beside him and clenched his hand between both of mine. His skin felt clammy. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.” My nurse motioned the other one out and closed the door.

  Collie’s face looked waxy – his thick blondish hair was dark with sweat. “I can hardly move without throwing up,” he said hoarsely. “Amity, I think…” He trailed off, closing his eyes.

  What had they done to him? I gripped his fingers hard. “Somebody gave you something to make you sick, didn’t they?” I said in an undertone.

  Collie’s hand clutched mine convulsively. “I don’t know. Hendrix gave me a cup of coffee, so he could have slipped something in. Amity, please – please – you can’t fly my fight. Promise me.”

  Somehow I locked away my fear for him. I stroked Collie’s hair from his damp forehead, trying to buy time while I thought. If they’d made him sick, it must be that they wanted this fight thrown after all – and they thought I’d do it. The messenger wouldn’t have been instructed to take me to Hendrix otherwise.

  Which meant…what? Was Madeline still working behind the scenes? Or had she been found out?

  I didn’t know. And so for now, I had to keep playing the game. The realization filled me with dread.

  “Amity.” Collie struggled to sit up again; his face abruptly drained of all colour. “Promise,” he gasped. “Don’t fight. Make up some excuse—”

  He broke off with a moan and I grabbed for a basin. Hunching over, he threw up bile into it, his broad shoulders flexing again and again. When he’d finished he slumped back, breathing hard.

  I wiped his damp face with a moist cloth. “Don’t worry,” I told him softly.

  “You won’t fight?”

  “No. I’ll think of something to tell them.”

  He took my hand; his fingers felt fretful in mine. “You promise?”

  “I promise.” I gently stroked the cloth down his bare arms, too. Suddenly I saw a little boy lying feverish in a dingy room while his mother danced drunkenly – and heard my own voice asking, Did you bathe Collie’s hands with a damp cloth?

  I swallowed and put the cloth aside. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll come back and see you again later.”

  Collie’s muscles had relaxed. He closed his eyes. “We’ll leave,” he whispered. “As soon as I’m better. Promise me that, too.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I said, because there was a limit to how much I could lie to the man I loved. Later, I knew Collie would notice that I hadn’t really answered. Now he just nodded weakly.

  “I was so worried that you’d fight,” he murmured. “Amity, I thought I’d go out of my mind…”

  “I’ll see you soon.” I kissed his forehead, letting my lips linger against his warm skin. “Everything will be all right.”

  As I left his hospital room, I prayed that the fact Collie had been made sick meant that Hendrix didn’t suspect him of knowing about the thrown fights. That he’d be safe, once he was over whatever they’d given him.

  And I hoped that he’d forgive me.

  The meeting with Hendrix was short and perfunctory. My commanding officer was on the phone when I came in. “Yes, we’ll see to it,” he said, and hung the gleaming black receiver back onto its cradle. He studied me.

  “You’ve heard about poor Collis, I suppose. Such a shame – and for a Tier One fight, too. Well, plans change. You’ll fly it for us instead, of course?”

  “Of course,” I said levelly.

  “Don’t let us down,” Hendrix said, his voice intent. “Remember what we discussed and things will go very well for you.”

  Collie’s fight was scheduled for half an hour before sunset: 18.10. I had less than fifteen minutes to get geared up. As the messenger drove me to the admin block, I gazed tensely at the buildings reeling past – remembering the No jobs signs, Clem being taken away, Collie’s pale face against his pillows.

  A Tier One fight. I could not lose, at least not on purpose. But they’d undoubtedly be watching. I’d have to look as if I were trying to throw it, yet still win. Was that even possible?

  It has to be, I told myself. If I didn’t make this good, they’d shoot me like they had Russ.

  The messenger pulled up with a squeal of breaks. I hopped out and jogged into the main building. As I started for the changing room, a flash of white in my mail cubbyhole caught my eye. I almost kept going, then stopped and pulled out the letter.

  It was from Hal.

  A chill swept me. What was happening at home? I hesitated, and then slipped his letter in my pocket. Whatever this was, I couldn’t afford to let it distract me just now.

  I geared up automatically and pulled on my leather jacket. Before I headed for the airstrip, I gazed at the photo of Collie, Hal and me on my father’s plane, taking in Dad’s wide smile. My three kids.

  Then I reached for my dog tags – my father’s and mine – and looped them around my neck.

  Three minutes to get out to my plane. I ducked into the storeroom adjacent to the airfield. The parachute marked Vancour was waiting on a shelf; as I started to take it, I saw the one labelled Reed.

  “Everything all right, Miss Vancour?” called an attendant.

  “Fine,” I called back. On impulse, I reached past my own parachute and grabbed the other one instead. Somehow it felt right: my father’s tags around my neck, and Collie’s chute on my back.

  My plane waited on the airstrip, its swirling pattern bright in the slanting light of sunset. “Nice night for it,” said Regan as I jogged up.

  I paused to shrug into the chute and fasten its straps around my ankles. “Perfect,” I said.

  And if flying was all that mattered, it was true: the air was mild and warm, with just a tang of the ocean. The palm trees lining the airstrip seemed to arch endlessly against the sky.

  Regan gave me a boost up onto the wing. I slid into the cockpit. Within seconds, the engine was roaring in my ears as I flicked switches and read dials. All the while my mind was ticking through options. So much depended on who I was fighting – how they would react.

  I could not
get this wrong.

  Regan leaned into the cockpit to help with my straps. “Fly safe, Miss Vancour,” he said, lifting his voice over the engine. “Show the Central States what’s what!”

  “That’s my plan,” I muttered.

  Regan jumped back down to the ground and shouted to the other fitter, who ran to pull the chocks away from my wheels. I yanked the hood closed, encasing myself in the world of the cockpit, and then pulled my goggles down over my eyes as Regan signalled the all clear.

  “Here we go,” I said out loud. I started down the runway, my undercarriage bumping; the plane picked up speed until the palm trees were a blur. I eased back on the throttle – a final bounce, and I was airborne.

  The fight was being held over the amphitheatre: our name for a particular dip in the eastern hills. It must have really been one at some point, or something similar – it was a flat, oval space surrounded by hundreds of tiered rows, all long-covered in grass. When I caught sight of it in the distance like a giant’s footprint, I briefly fingered my tags.

  My first Tier One fight, yet I could take no pride in it.

  Once closer, I spotted the other plane circling over the amphitheatre’s western lip. The world angled sideways as I banked and drew into position on the other side. My clock read 18.09. No cloud cover, and the sun was too low to hide in its glare.

  Short and brutal – that was what fights in these conditions were like.

  As my engine droned, I quickly scanned the grassy slopes. I’d expected someone posing as a broadcaster; there was nobody. My opponent would file a report, though. And if Hendrix realized I’d tried to win… I steeled myself.

  18.10. We were on.

  At precisely the same moment, the other plane and I headed for the centre of the airspace. My fingers felt poised on the stick.

  “Time for my training to come in handy,” I murmured. Once during practice, my opponent and I’d fired fatal shots almost at once. I’d been a hair faster. In a real fight, I’d have taken critical damage while still winning.

  A claim of mistiming: that was all I had.

  The sun glinted off the other plane. Just before firing range, I pulled up abruptly and went for height. The other Dove’s swirls blurred together as it did the same, both of us battling for prime position.

  Nine thousand feet. Twelve thousand. I gritted my teeth. “You will not win,” I muttered to Gunnison’s pilot. Façade be damned; too much was riding on this.

  My opponent was a hundred feet below, climbing fast – but I had the advantage. I pushed the stick forward. My plane howled into a dive. The other Firedove slid sharply away and I got it in my sights, keeping right on its tail. The amphitheatre spun below, its green oval turning on my wing.

  My scalp felt electric. The other Dove’s fuselage swung into the crosshairs. There. Just as the other plane whipped about to fire on me, my thumb jammed down hard on the trigger.

  The world exploded.

  Fire – a roar that filled my ears. My straps gouged at my shoulders as I slammed against the port side of my plane. Thick black smoke smothered the cockpit, and then drifted away.

  I gaped down at my starboard wing as it fell, on fire, to the ground.

  How? No time to wonder. My plane was falling, too, like a real dove shot from the sky, the world spinning faster and faster. With icy hands I fumbled to undo my straps and then shoved back the cockpit hood.

  Wind screamed past, tugging at my clothes. Fall away from the spin: we’d all learned it in training. I didn’t let myself think. I half-stood and let gravity do the rest, tumbling from the cockpit.

  My stomach dipped; I was in free fall. My spinning plane howled above – I had to get clear. Concordia’s fate flashed into my head. I shoved it aside and clutched my ripcord, feverishly counting one banana, two banana. When I reached ten I yanked the cord.

  The parachute billowed up, snapping me to a slower fall. With a gasp of relief, I pulled hard on the cords to steer away from the falling wreckage. Then saw in confusion that I was heading towards it. How?

  My heart chilled. No – it was the other Firedove. Its port wing had been blown off, too.

  I had not caused that damage. No way in hell. As I steered frantically away, I saw the other cockpit slide open – saw the other pilot bail, tumbling gently out into the sky.

  One banana. Two banana.

  At ten, I shouted, “Pull it! You’re clear!” I don’t know if they heard me, but I saw their parachute unfurl above them…and drift away.

  I stared stupidly after it: a white circle flapping and turning against the sunset. The other pilot was falling. There was no parachute.

  They were falling.

  I could hear them screaming now. Him. A male voice. It woke me up. “No!” I yelled. I tugged hard on my straps, trying to steer myself to reach him – but I was going far too slowly. He’d already passed me.

  It takes longer than you might think to fall from ten thousand feet. I watched his figure grow smaller, my eyes abruptly full of tears behind my goggles. I ducked my head away as he hit almost in the exact centre of the amphitheatre. Such a small noise…but the crunch of it shuddered through me. The planes crashed seconds later, one after the other.

  Silence.

  My chest was heaving; I forced myself to calm down. The ground below looked littered with abandoned toys. The other pilot’s body was small and still. I clutched my cords. Who had done this? Cain?

  Staring down, I was suddenly struck with how isolated this place was.

  The low drone of an approaching engine. A truck entered the amphitheatre from a dark tunnel to one side. My first thought was that help had come – my second was that I was an idiot.

  I’d taken the wrong parachute. I’d been supposed to die, too.

  The truck stopped. Two men got out and stood gazing up at me. One reached inside his jacket; I could see the movement even from this height.

  I was drifting right towards them. Frantically, I yanked on the cords to steer myself away. Too slow, too slow! I tore off my gloves and fumbled in my jacket pocket for my penknife. I flipped open the blade and sawed at one of the cords; it gave way with a fraying of threads. The parachute jounced – I fell faster. As I started hacking through another cord I had no idea if this was a good idea, but I was too perfect a target up here.

  A bullet screamed past. I gasped and kept sawing. The men ran towards me, their shadows long and spidery. One was bald; the other had curly hair. Grass swarmed up at me – I pedalled my legs and stumbled as I hit the ground. I undid my straps, shrugged out of the chute and ran.

  Shouts. Bullets thudded past, the noise strangely flat, competing with the roar of my pulse. I pushed myself to go even faster, weaving from side to side, wishing feverishly that it was just a little bit later – a little bit darker.

  Another tunnel lay ahead, gaping like a hungry mouth. I sprinted into it. The scent of moist earth enveloped me.

  Within seconds I could hardly see. I groped quickly along, one hand on the wall – it was some kind of ancient concrete, weeping with damp. Water pooled on the floor. Soon the route narrowed; there’d been a cave-in at some point. I gasped in dismay. I could be trapped in here.

  Going out again wasn’t an option. I steeled myself and clambered over the rubble. I’d just squeezed past a stone block as big as I was when I heard voices. I pressed flat against the wall, my heart hammering.

  “Should we go back for the truck?”

  “No, look – it narrows here; we’d never get it through. Damn it. Where does this place come out, anyway?”

  “Don’t know; it’s all woods on that side. We’d better call in.”

  “Right, buddy, you can tell Cain she got away. Bitch can’t have gone far. Give me your lighter.”

  The voices drew closer. Blood roared through my brain. I dropped silently to my hands and knees; fumbling, I found a small, cave-like space in the rubble and crawled into it. I pulled my knees hard against my chest and buried my head against them.


  My uniform’s brown, my hair’s dark, I thought wildly. Please, just let me merge into the shadows…

  A dull thud as a rock fell. One of the men swore. When his voice came again it was much closer, whispering. “Okay, it opens out again. Hold that light up.”

  My fingertips gouged into my legs. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  “Nothing,” hissed the voice finally. “Damn it, this was supposed to be an easy job – just put a bullet through her head if she was still twitching.”

  “Shut up; she’ll hear us. Listen, you better go climb the hill – keep an eye on the other side, in case she makes it out.”

  “Got it.”

  Footsteps moved back towards the entrance; I heard the man make his way over the rubble. The other continued down the tunnel past me.

  My mouth was dust. What now? The one who’d just left would see me if I tried to escape the way I’d come in. And soon this place would be swarming with the clean-up crew. A very special one, no doubt, who wouldn’t question two planes with their wings blown off and a parachute with cut straps.

  For a few long minutes I stayed silent, listening to the footsteps fading down the tunnel. Finally, when enough time had passed for the other man to have reached the hill’s crest, I edged out from my hiding space.

  My heart raced like a rabbit’s. I felt far too exposed, but forced myself to creep back towards the entrance. I could hear the faint drip, drip of water – my own footsteps, startlingly loud.

  I reached the rubble pile. Enough light angled in through the tunnel’s mouth now for me to see. I moved silently, testing each concrete shard for balance.

  At the top a mouse scurried over my boot. I stifled a cry as I stumbled; my left foot shot downwards. Pain jolted my ankle as it wedged between two shards.

  No! Pebbles pattered down the rubble as I tugged at my leg. Stuck fast. Stay calm, Amity. Breathing hard, I started hefting pieces of concrete away as quietly and quickly as I could.

  Too late. The footsteps were heading back. I heard them hesitate…and then break into a run.