Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  “What?”

  “Have a little sympathy, Arianna.”

  “Bolt, you need to have a little sympathy for us. Trucker is going to come after us and he’s not going to do anything less than murder us horribly for letting another job go wrong.”

  “It won’t be that bad.”

  “Yes. It will be. So excuse me if I don’t play sympathetic nursemaid to these backspace colonists who aren’t even safe from the most basic of galactic calamities. Am I a little sad their families are dead? Yes. But am I more upset that looking for the bloated corpses of their loved ones is going to get us killed in addition? You bet. Now, you get back out there, you find out where we can drop these grieving saps and we’ll be on our way.”

  She could see Bolt’s colors fading between shame and anger, confused by the two contradictory emotions. He took in a deep breath, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “That’s better. It’s about time we had a modicum of respect on this ship.”

  Bolt’s eyes narrowed and the colors of shame left his skin. It all turned to the warm, exotic colors of annoyed anger and forced obedience.

  He slid the door open, took a step out, and then slammed it shut behind him, leaving Arianna alone to think about things in her bare quarters.

  There was no sense in her going back out there. She knew the only thing she’d do was inflame the situation and force everyone into tears. She’d done it once today and a hundred times in her life, but she took no satisfaction in making men cry, least of all from those lamenting the loss of their families.

  This was a job Bolt was better equipped for. Coming up with a plan to deal with Trucker would be her concern.

  * *** *

  Bolt went back to the cockpit where Lancet was hunched over in the co-pilot’s chair. His head was in his hands. It killed him to see anyone in such distress. The Dracadian tried hard to put himself in the miner’s headspace. Though he didn’t have a family, Bolt could easily imagine how difficult it would be for him to cope with losing Arianna. For all of her many, many faults, she offered him guidance and, for the most part, tried to keep his life as free from trouble as it could be. But they were, after all, unsavory characters, so ‘trouble’ was relative.

  But this poor fellow lost everything dear to him. Bolt could barely process that. The best he could do was try to help him. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” Lancet said, looking up and sniffling. “I just…”

  “I know.”

  “You really think they’re gone?”

  “Anything is possible,” Bolt assured him.

  “You think they’re out there, then?”

  The Dracadian grinned. “Anything is possible. Why don’t we look a little harder? There’s bound to be clues out there we’ve missed.”

  Lancet wiped his face with the top of his wrist and stood, allowing Bolt to take his place at the comm console. Lancet then cleared his throat. “Well, for starters, that isn’t actually a part of the ship.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m fairly certain it’s only a part of the docking tube…”

  “Which means there’s no evidence to suggest the ship is destroyed?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s too bad I don’t have the ship’s internal comm frequency, maybe we could have tapped into that and it could have given us something to home in on.”

  “The what?”

  “The internal comm. It’s too bad we don’t have the frequency.”

  “But we do.”

  “What?”

  “We do have it. It’s tuned in on our wrist communicators.”

  “That one? The one you’re wearing?” The colors of excitement on Bolt’s skin were too cool to match the warmth of the feelings that enthusiasm conjured inside of him. Without another word, Bolt turned knobs and dials until a faint static grew on the speakers.

  Through the abrasive clicking noises and interference, a faint voice could be heard, breaking through the digital ruckus.

  Lancet raised his head sharply. “What was that? Did you hear that?”

  “Let me see if I can clean up the signal.” Bolt turned the dial just a hair until a voice came into focus through the noise. Bolt could make out individual words that he and Lancet could make out through the fuzz.

  “zz…tt…problems on deck four…zz…tt…that’s what I want to…zz…tt…airl…k…zz…tt…”

  “Did they just say air leak?” Lancet wondered, a note of panic in his voice, and the obvious conclusion blowing right by him.

  “They could have said airlock, but isn’t that missing the belt for the asteroids? There’s no one else around here. They’re alive.”

  “But they’re in trouble…”

  “Maybe,” Bolt said. “But now we have a lock on them. It’s never the right thing to abandon hope. No matter how hopeless things might seem. What were the chances we’d find you? The odds were astronomically against it, but we did. And what were the chances we’d find them? Much higher than us finding you.”

  The lines in Lancet’s face faded with his worry, his posture grew more upright with his brightened outlook. In fact, he almost smiled.

  “Go. Tell your mates. We found them.”

  Lancet nodded curtly, then fled the room with the speed of a Dracadian brevel, leaving Bolt to do the work of physically locating the Titanium Dream and docking.

  Hours passed. The two ships docked with little trouble. The families were reunited. It was a teary affair all the way around. Bolt accepted many thanks on behalf of the absent captain and assured them that he wished he could do more than he had. Bolt had assembled a variety of parts they’d need to repair their ship enough to get the help they needed. The Dracadian’s lamented the fact that the rest of the components and supplies that they’d need that he had access to were Trucker’s contraband.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more,” he repeated to every sign of thanks.

  But Bolt had done enough and, if he wanted to keep his pelt, he’d need to get Trucker his supplies and smooth things over with Arianna, who he hadn’t seen in hours.

  Feeling satisfied with himself, he closed the docking doors, waving goodbye to those he’d had some small part in saving, and slowly made his way through the ship. On the way to the bridge, he passed by Arianna’s quarters and stopped.

  Raising his hand to knock, he could sense an aura of frustration. Just thinking about what Arianna’s reaction might be to everything that had happened, especially since she had been so uncomfortable on her own ship that she saw fit to hide away in her quarters, filled him with foreboding.

  “I suppose it’s best to leave her be,” Bolt told himself, walking the rest of the way to the cockpit and setting them on their course.

  Bolt sat alone in the cockpit, navigating the ship back to their original course in brooding silence. He did his best to turn his brain off during that time, not wanting to stew in the frustration of their predicament. No matter what happened, he knew Trucker would be inconsolably furious by their delay.

  An hour had passed before Arianna sat down in the captain’s chair without a word.

  “I was wondering when I was going to see you again.”

  “Hm.”

  “They all wanted me to give you their best. It meant a lot to them, what we did.”

  “I know.”

  “We didn’t have to, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Trucker will understand. We can just tell him we had to navigate around a star or something.”

  “About that…” There was a level of concern in her voice that Bolt recognized as a mask for having done something wrong.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No. But he’s not going to want to talk to us anymore.”

  “He can’t be that upset by us being late. We’re not going to be any more late than usual.”

  “Late really isn’t the problem.”

  “Pl
ease explain.”

  “He’ll probably be more upset that I dumped the cargo.”

  If Bolt had had a mouth full of liquid, he would have surely evacuated its contents all across the cockpit glass and console with surprise. “You what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Please, say it again, I really don’t think I did hear you.” His skin cycled through colors between the warm tones of anger and shock and mid-tones of frustrated confusion.

  “You were right. They needed that stuff a lot worse than we did.”

  “You gave it to the asteroid jocks?”

  “Well, I didn’t give it to them as much as jettison it in their proximity as we were leaving.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Look, they needed it more than we did. And it didn’t matter to Trucker if we were late or empty handed. He’s going to send someone after us either way.”

  “How altruistically bleak of you.”

  “Don’t blame me. This is your fault. If you hadn’t stopped to help them, we’d have been halfway across the galaxy by now, ready to pick up a paycheck.”

  “Sure. Blame the Dracadian.”

  “It’s going in the log that way.”

  “I’m sure. Now that we’ve done our good deed for the ages, where shall we set our course? If you’d like my opinion, I’d say we go the opposite direction of anything that even vaguely smells like Trucker.”

  “We’ve been surfing the rim too long. Let’s head for the heart. Sirta Station. Fastest speed.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  *

  The Battle Rose

  by SM Blooding

  “Could look prettier, I guess.”

  Leftenant Rose Primus set down her wrench and shimmied along the wing of the plane, careful not to damage the webbing. The Storm Gypsy was her own design and she was quite proud of it.

  She slid into the cockpit, her eyes on the gauges as she fired up the Gypsy. The motors turned, giving a little whine. Rose grinned, starting up the weapons sequence.

  The single engine shut off.

  “Dirt humping piece of—” She clicked her tongue in disgust and scrambled out the cockpit. Scuttling along the bottom webbed wing, she ducked underneath the upper one. She’d come up with this design from an insect called the dragonfly. Now, granted, there were already several birds out there called dragonflies, but they were metal. They didn’t climb well, struggled to maintain altitude, and didn’t maneuver worth a clod of dirt. The Gypsy was light, her wings flexible, and could maneuver in almost anything.

  There were downsides to this design. Her weapons had to be light, which was why Rose was refitting the lightning cannons, as the standard ones issued by the Hands were too heavy.

  The cannon she’d just installed appeared to be wired correctly. With a frown, she slid down the wing, her feet hitting the metal deck of the black refueling station. She ducked under the bird and opened the compartment to the engine.

  “If you flew something more reliable, you wouldn’t have to worry about it not working,” a male voice called from behind her.

  “I like being able to maneuver while shooting down my enemy, Captain,” she shouted back, keeping her attention on the wires she traced.

  His black booted feet appeared first, followed by his pale blue military pants. He knelt, peering up at her from under the belly of the Gypsy.

  She followed the red wire with her fingertips to where it entered the engine compartment. “What can I do for you, Captain Bennen?”

  He winced. “Your queen is here.”

  Rose rolled her eyes, but continued working on her wires. The red one was fine. She moved on to the green. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  He shifted so she could see his blonde head under her arm. “Tell me I can trust you.”

  She paused to frown at him. “Of course you can. Haven’t I proven that to you in the past season?”

  “I meant not to do something stupid.” The expression on his square face was solemn as he picked at his thumbnail. “She has orders.”

  Rose swallowed, her fingers moving along the wires again. With a start, she pulled back, fire shooting between her finger and thumb, racing along her arm. “Found you.”

  Bennen monkey-walked two steps and stood next to her in the small compartment. He handed her the roll of white insulating tape that had been on the deck. “I need to know you’ll follow my orders out there, Leftenant, no matter what they are.”

  She took the roll from him and wrapped it around the wire. “Haven’t I always?”

  “Mine, yes. Hers? No.”

  There was a reason for that. “Who does she want us to kill without provocation this time?”

  He sucked on his teeth, watching her work. “The Varga Family, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “There always is. Did she tell you what she wanted us to take from the wreckage?” Gritting her teeth, she met his blue gaze.

  “Nothing,” said the captain. “We’re to take nothing.”

  This was a bad idea. She turned back to her work. “Why are you leading this? She can’t get the Wands to do her dirty work for her? She has to come to the Swords?”

  “The nearest Wands station is out of range.” He paused. “And she specifically requested you.”

  Rose knew what that meant. This was her last chance to prove herself worthy of being saved. If she failed, there was only one solution, one way out. “At least I don’t have anyone I care about in Sky City anymore.”

  “Rose…”

  She ducked down and slammed the compartment door shut, barely giving Bennen enough time to get out of the way. “I take it she’s here.”

  He nodded. “And she wants to see you right now.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Bennen paused. “Why not?”

  “Because I already know what she’s going to say.” She scanned the deck. The small, blue sun shone brightly, glaring off the windows of the command dome in the middle of the wide flight deck. Men and women jogged to their planes. The sounds of engines roared, filling the air. The squadron had their orders.

  “Get the Gypsy running, Leftenant,” said Bennan. “I need you in the air.” He started to turn, but stopped. “And one more thing?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re one of mine now. Not hers. So don’t do anything I’ll regret. You might not have anyone to protect in Sky City, but I do.”

  She watched him disappear along the line of planes lifting off the deck and cursed under her breath.

  Rose crawled up the wing and slid into the cockpit. This time when she initiated the weapons sequence, the engine continued to whine, rising in volume and pitch until it roared. Plumes of smoke rose around her from the other birds lifting off. She smirked, putting on her flight cap and strapping her goggles into place. The Gypsy didn’t leave burn trails in the sky.

  The other planes struggled to rise, their motors screaming, propeller compartments pointed to the deck for push-off. The Gypsy fluttered her wings a few times in quick succession, and rose from the black metal deck of the floating refueling station with ease.

  Captain Bennen was getting strapped in, starting up his bird. Rose joined the rest of the squadron that had lifted off and made a clockwise circle around the station, careful to stay free of the large propellers at the bottom which kept the massive, metal platform high in the sky. A storm rolled below them and there was another refueling station just barely in sight. Its black mass was partially buried in the clouds.

  Bennen joined them in the sky. “Alright, ladies,” he said over the headset. “Let’s go find the Varga. You can bet they’re above the storm.” The propellers of Bennen’s plane rotated, the blades now in the back of his wings. “Let’s move.”

  They rose in elevation and followed their captain away from the sun.

  The storm rose, clouds swirling and building. The Gypsy jumped in the air and plummeted as the plane next to her veered in
to her wing. Rose fought for control while trying to dodge her wingmate. The currents were brutal up here.

  “Loosen the formation,” Bennen ordered.

  Rose dropped closer to the storm, knowing that most of the pilots wouldn’t.

  “Leftenant, in front of you,” Bennen barked.

  Buried in the storm’s top was a small fleet of bulky airships. Each was three stories deep, their unwieldy hulls made of what could have been wood. Three tall masts rose from the deck, sails of varying sizes hanging from them. Each of the eight ships had less than half their sails down, blue with a single red stripe. It was a wonder they could fly at all, though Rose knew different from experience.

  Harnessed next to the tallest mast of each ship was an air jelly, or jellyfish. She’d seen them in the sky with their opaque balloon body and trails of translucent tentacles, and had always made a point to stay clear of them. One touch from a tentacle and her entire plane was dead in the air, the electrical system fried. On the hull of each ship was a massive bust of a vulture, painted in vulgar colors. They were meant to intimidate, and they did.

  She watched the rest of her squadron. All twelve planes, including the Gypsy and the captain’s were in place. “Sir, we’re ready on your order.”

  “Thank you, Leftenant.”

  The Varga Fleet gave no indication they were prepared for an attack. There were no weapons, no cannons. Rose’s gut twisted. She pushed the yellow button on her console, a direct line to Captain Bennen. “Sir?”

  The captain sighed. “Rose, don’t do this. Not now.”

  “I have a bad feeling.”

  “This is your last chance. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. You fail to complete this mission, your queen is ending your life.” He closed the communication link between their two birds and reopened the mic to the squadron. “On my mark, ladies. Ready weapons.”

  With a feeling of dark dread, Rose raised the cover of the switch to her lightning cannons. She breathed, wondering what exactly the Varga had done to deserve this. They were just sitting there. Why eradicate their fleet? What if there were children on those ships? How many innocent lives was she about to take per Queen Nix’s orders this time?