Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  Fury trembled over me. No, I was not going to die here like a rat in a trap. I wrenched up. My foot burst free; I staggered and fell backwards down the slope, landing in a sprawl.

  A man appeared, looming atop the rubble.

  “Well, what have we here?” His mouth curled as he pointed a gun at me; I heard a click as he released the safety. At the same moment I grabbed a rock and twisted upwards, heaving it at his face. He stumbled back with a cry. I scrambled to my feet and launched myself at him.

  We slammed down the slope in a scrabble of rocks. The gun went flying.

  “Oh, you bitch!” the man spat. He struggled to grab my neck – his thumbs dug into my throat, making the world swim. Panting, I twined my fingers in his curly hair and banged his head against a rock. Again. And again. And again.

  He stopped moving.

  With a shudder, I slowly sat up, clutching my throat. He was still breathing, his head lolling limply to one side. Curly brown hair, ruddy cheeks, a rumpled suit. At his throat was a gold medallion with an archer on it.

  I swallowed and glanced over my shoulder at the entrance. No noise. Yet. I shook myself into action and grabbed up the gun. I barely knew enough to put on the safety, but felt better for having a weapon. I shoved it into my belt, then patted through the man’s pockets, grimly forcing myself not to remember Russ, and Ingo’s voice: Are you sure you don’t want his watch, too?

  A wallet. Cigarettes. I sagged with relief when my fingers closed over the hard metallic shape of auto keys. I took them and the wallet and left him the cigarettes.

  When I emerged from the tunnel the sun was still visible, shining down over the amphitheatre in a thin orange slice. Not half an hour had passed since the other pilot and I faced off. The remains of our planes looked dark and twisted, ugly against the faint golden light.

  Staying pressed close to the inner curve of the amphitheatre, I quickly made my way around to the truck. With luck, the gunman up on top wouldn’t see me here.

  I drew near the truck…and to the fallen pilot. I knew he was dead – you don’t fall from ten thousand feet and survive – but I still hesitated. Finally, cursing myself, I glanced upwards and then went over, steeling my spine.

  I stopped in my tracks when I saw how little was left of his head – and the red spray that surrounded his body like fine mist. I let out a shaky breath. He wouldn’t have suffered, at least, apart from the fear as he fell.

  “Peace, friend,” I said hoarsely, and raced for the truck.

  I scanned the amphitheatre’s upper rim. No one in sight. The truck’s control panel had a talky device; I smashed it to pieces with a rock. I was taking no chances that they could track me with it – because now that the first shock was fading, the puzzle pieces were slotting into place.

  Right, buddy, you can tell Cain she got away.

  This was supposed to be an easy job – just put a bullet through her head if she’s still twitching.

  “Her”, not “them”. This was about me – about luring me to a remote spot and making sure I died. The Central States pilot had been killed just to do away with the witness. If I hadn’t taken Collie’s parachute, I’d be dead now, too – smeared across the ground just like my opponent.

  I slid into the driver’s seat; the truck started on the first try. I slammed it into gear and sped across the bumpy ground towards the other tunnel. As the darkness swallowed me I switched on the headlights. They gleamed across the damp surface as thoughts beat at my brain.

  They knew now that I was not on their side. They knew I would do anything to expose them.

  And that meant that Madeline had been found out.

  Fear gripped my throat, along with a knee-weakening relief that I’d said nothing about Collie to her. No matter what they’d done to Madeline, she couldn’t have implicated him. No one would have reason to think that he knew anything, apart from how close we were.

  Maybe that was enough. Maybe he was in danger, too.

  My fingers were tight on the steering wheel. I forced away the mental image of Collie lying weak and helpless in his hospital bed. The tunnel ended with a bump and a shift of surfaces; I emerged into the evening on a quiet road with trees lining each side, their branches lacing together against the sunset.

  I’d never driven in these hills before but I’d flown over them a hundred times. I needed to go west. I’d come to a river that led to the sea; there was a bridge there. I’d cross it and keep angling down through the hills.

  Because, much as I dreaded it, there was really only one place I could go.

  As I downshifted around a hairpin turn, a cracking sound lashed through the truck. The windshield splintered like a spiderweb; shards of glass hit the seat next to me.

  My pulse pounded. I screeched around the turn – another hole exploded through the windshield and I ducked my head down, somehow steering while peering up over the dash. If he gets the tyres, I’m dead, I thought frantically.

  I cried out as the gunman lurched into the road in front of me, still firing – then I set my jaw and floored it, heading right for him. Okay, pal, if that’s how you want to play it. He dived away in a wild scramble; a second later I heard the whine of metal as another bullet hit the back of the truck – then I turned a curve and was gone.

  I let out a shaky breath. How much time did I have before Cain discovered what had happened and sent people out looking for me? The clean-up crew wouldn’t be long in arriving; they were probably already on their way.

  Be safe, I thought fiercely to Collie. You have got to stay safe. They wouldn’t do anything to him, would they? Or worse, he wouldn’t give himself away somehow, desperate for answers when I didn’t return?

  Don’t. Please. I beg you.

  My knuckles were white on the wheel. I couldn’t control what might happen and I hated it – I could only hope as hard as I could that Collie would keep his head down and be all right. Meanwhile, if I was lucky, I had maybe a fifteen-minute window to get away clear.

  But at least I was going to the one place that I didn’t think they’d expect.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “And yet you didn’t flag Vancour’s chart as a potential danger,” said Skinner.

  They were in a plush boardroom off Gunnison’s state offices in the Aquarius building; the marble wall had a motif of golden water-bearers. John Gunnison himself sat a few chairs away. He stroked his chin with a knuckle and frowned. To make Kay’s humiliation complete, Bernard was there, too, watching her like a hawk.

  “No, I didn’t flag it,” Kay said.

  “Do you realize you were the only astrologer not to flag it?” The bald patch on Skinner’s eyebrow gleamed. Kay wished that it made him ridiculous, so that she wouldn’t feel so frightened.

  The Chief Astrologer angled the chart towards him. “A Grand Cross – and with those particular planets! Really, Miss Pierce! This may not be a classically Discordant chart, but you’re a Twelve Year Astrologer. It should have been obvious that she couldn’t be trusted.”

  Kay glanced at Johnny, willing him to be on her side. He wasn’t, of course. Kay had heard by now, in great detail, exactly what Amity Vancour had been up to. As a result of Hester’s information at the party, plans had been put into place to take care of the rogue pilot, but Vancour had escaped only hours ago. She could now expose all of Gunnison’s plans if they weren’t careful.

  Skinner tapped the table. His voice was ice. “I had great faith in your…shall we say, unorthodox methods, but I’m afraid it was very much misplaced.”

  I didn’t suspect Vancour because you didn’t suspect her! Kay wanted to scream. This is all your fault!

  She lifted her chin. “May I speak?”

  Skinner gave a wincing smile. “Please do.”

  “It’s true I didn’t flag this chart as a danger.” Kay felt a bolt of pure hatred for Amity Vancour. “But I can explain,” she went on.

  “Well, I for one would love to hear it,” said Bernard. “Because it’s clear to me th
at—”

  “It’s my turn to speak,” snapped Kay. She turned to Gunnison. “Sir –” she didn’t dare call him “Johnny” just then – “I flagged Russ Avery’s chart when no one else did. I was right. He later caused trouble and had to be disposed of. And I chose the perfect spot for the first phase of the Reclamation to take place. If you’ll just listen to me now, I promise—”

  “The Reclamation hasn’t even begun yet!” burst out Bernard. “According to my calculations, your perfect location’s a disaster.”

  Only if Johnny’s wrong, thought Kay. And she didn’t believe that for a second. From the faint flicker behind Johnny’s eyes, he felt the same.

  “Sir, please – may I finish?” she said softly.

  “Go on,” Gunnison said. It was almost the first time he’d spoken.

  Kay pulled Vancour’s chart towards her. Please let me make this good, she prayed.

  In a clear voice, she said, “I didn’t flag Vancour’s chart because she is not a danger to us. Yes, things seem troubling now…but look at Pluto in retrograde. Her actions are actually going to benefit us.”

  Skinner blinked. He opened his mouth and slowly shut it again. At his side, Bernard’s jaw dropped.

  “What?” he sputtered.

  Gunnison tapped his cheek. “Y’know, I’m not utterly convinced, Miss Pierce.”

  Call me Kay! she wanted to cry. Her thoughts flew wildly, like startled birds. She kept her voice calm.

  “There’s more,” she said.

  Gunnison raised an eyebrow. Kay took a breath, wondering what she was going to say next. What came out shocked even her. “You see…well…I cast your own chart a few months ago.”

  A vein in Skinner’s forehead bulged. “You cast—! That is an extreme breach of—”

  “It’s illegal,” corrected Gunnison mildly. He studied Kay, his blue eyes delving. She shivered. Even in this moment of sickening danger, she felt despair that Gunnison had cast her out of his inner circle.

  “So I hope you had a good reason for doing it,” concluded Gunnison. He hooked one arm over the back of his chair. It could mean a willingness to listen to her…or that he’d already made up his mind.

  Under the table, Kay wiped damp palms on her skirt. “Yes, I did. If I can see a copy of your chart now, I’ll show you what I found.”

  Skinner’s face reddened; the tiny bald spot stayed deathly pale. “I’m confident I can answer for Mr Gunnison when I say—”

  “Nah, no one answers for me,” said Gunnison. “Go get a copy of my chart, Mal.”

  “But—”

  “Go on.”

  Skinner left the room. Bernard sat gazing at Kay with loathing from across the table. It hit her then what his presence here meant: she and Bernard must be the top two Twelve Year astrologers. Or they had been. She had no idea where she’d be after this.

  There might soon be another empty chair in the astrology boardroom.

  Skinner returned and handed Kay a chart. His jaw was tight. “I should like very much to know how you got the details to cast this,” he said.

  “Oh, Miss Pierce is resourceful – that’s never been in doubt,” said Gunnison. He motioned to her. “Go on.”

  Kay had never seen this chart before. Skinner was right; the details of Gunnison’s birth were classified. She scanned it quickly. Sun in Sagittarius, rising sign Scorpio. How could she use this to support the idea that Vancour wasn’t a danger? She had to find a similarity between the two charts – some link she could use—

  To buy time, she said, “Well, you know my specialty is merging charts and finding trends. Look at this.”

  She drew a blank chart from her briefcase and juxtaposed Vancour’s and Gunnison’s charts. Skinner and Bernard craned towards her, watching. As she worked she studied both charts in more detail, looking frantically for something she could put a spin on.

  And then she saw it. Was it enough, though? It would have to be.

  “There,” she said when she finished. She looked Gunnison in the eyes. “See the trine elements? And how Saturn conjuncts Mercury, in both charts? Sir, Miss Vancour’s chart shows a clear karmic bond with your own. She may not realize it, but everything she does is helping the Central States.”

  Skinner started to speak and stopped.

  “Preposterous,” muttered Bernard, but his eyes were worried. He studied the chart, his gaze flicking over the various elements.

  Gunnison sat motionless, looking at Kay rather than the merged chart. “A karmic bond, huh?”

  Did he even believe in karma? Kay managed a small shrug. “Call it what you will. The result is the same. Miss Vancour can’t harm us.”

  What are you saying? her mind shrieked. Vancour was on the run this very second. Kay had no idea what the maniac might do. She, Kay, was buying herself a few hours at best.

  Gunnison examined the charts. His expression was inscrutable.

  “Yes, but what about the Central States’ chart?” Bernard said clearly. He drew a copy from his briefcase and slapped it down.

  Gunnison’s gaze flicked to Kay. “Well?”

  Kay fought her panic. “I was just about to mention the CS chart, actually. Watch.” She quickly merged it with the other two. To her relief, there was something she could grab hold of.

  “You see? A perfect conjunct of Mars and Mercury. Most unusual and most powerful.” Before anyone could comment, Kay blundered on: “In fact…in fact, I suspect that Miss Vancour’s actions might be the missing puzzle piece we’ve all been waiting for.”

  She had the dizzying sense of having jumped off a cliff. Gunnison’s eyes widened.

  “You mean for the Reclamation?” he said.

  It was obviously what he wanted to hear. Kay nodded. Skinner and Bernard sat too stunned to speak.

  Gunnison leaned forward on his elbows. “So what is your advice, exactly?”

  Kay’s mouth felt like cotton. What was her advice? “Well…I’d keep an eye on Vancour, of course,” she said slowly. “We need to be ready to act at a moment’s notice.”

  “If we could find her, that would be a start,” muttered Bernard.

  “Oh, we have some idea where she might go,” said Gunnison, still watching Kay.

  “Then monitor her. Make decisions at every turn,” said Kay. “We must keep completely on top of this. But I promise you, she’s fulfilling the role she’s meant to. Her actions will turn out for the best.”

  She fervently hoped the words were vague enough that she could take credit for anything that wasn’t a disaster, yet still be let off the hook for not flagging Vancour in the first place. Oh, why had she brought the Reclamation into it?

  Gunnison drummed his fingers. His hair was slightly rumpled; the effect was oddly boyish, despite his greying blond temples.

  “The missing puzzle piece,” he muttered.

  “Sir…” Skinner’s voice was a plea.

  Gunnison’s sudden frown could mean anything. Abruptly, he picked up the charts and rose. “I’ll let you know what I decide,” he said. “Go home and stay there, Miss Pierce.”

  As he left the room, Kay couldn’t help gazing after him. Even apart from survival, she yearned to get back in his good graces.

  The door closed.

  The other two gazed wordlessly at her. Bernard smiled a closed-lipped smile, eyes glittering. Skinner poured a glass of water from a pitcher and took a long sip. He didn’t offer Kay a glass.

  “If you’re lucky, you’ll just be shot, and not sent to a correction camp,” he said at last.

  Kay coolly gathered her things and stood up. “For your information, I’ll be a lot luckier than that.”

  It wasn’t until she left the room and went into the Ladies that she allowed herself to sag. She leaned against a sink and pressed a hand to her mouth, trembling as she recalled how the severed heads in the film had sparkled with frost.

  Bile and terror lurched in her throat. She wheeled into one of the cubicles and dropped to her knees; clutching the sides of the
toilet, she threw up until there was nothing left.

  Afterwards Kay slumped against the side of the cubicle, breathing hard. The wall felt smooth and impersonal against her cheek.

  She didn’t believe in luck. She never had.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  As I approached the speak, the music pulsed around me like a second heartbeat. I wore an unfamiliar parka. I’d found a woollen cap in one of its pockets and now it was nestled on my head, down low over my eyebrows. At least it was dark now, and the parka so bulky you could hardly tell I was a woman.

  I hadn’t encountered anyone else as I drove in the hills. It had terrified me to have the headlights on; I knew how easily I’d be spotted from the sky. As soon as I’d been able – about a mile from the sprawling expanse of Peacefighting bases – I’d ditched the truck and walked.

  Entering by one of the main gates was out of the question. Word would be out by now; my pass would get me arrested in seconds. The outer fences only had periodic patrols, though. And in one place I’d hoped there wouldn’t even be those.

  I’d cut across sea-bitten fields and scaled the scrapyard fence in the moonlight, using my leather jacket to edge over the rusty barbed wire. As I dropped to the ground I saw no one. The front gate lay past the Western Seaboard’s section, its planes ghostly in the silvery light. I was desperate to reach my destination, but when I came to where my plane had been, I glanced upwards.

  Gone.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened. I stared at the empty space atop two sprawled-together Doves. They had actually gone to the trouble of moving a wrecked plane. When?

  I broke into a run, terrified it might already be too late. In the small office I found a blue parka, the same as that worn by hundreds of Heat workers. I grabbed it and hid my flight jacket deep in the yard. By the time it was found, I’d either be dead or safe. I hoped that “safe” was still an option.

  I’d never been so thankful of the Heat’s enormity. Striding through its streets an hour later, no one had given me a second glance. Now I stood in front of the noisy speak with my hands jammed in stolen pockets. A group of pilots entered, laughing – you could always tell the pilots, somehow – and for a second I straightened.