With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  Using the docked planes as cover, I slip through the hangar to the edge of the group, unnoticed. Edging close enough to hear the Flight Captain giving orders, I take advantage of the eyes facing forward and join the back row.

  “Airman Basmon!”

  I shut my eyes, trying my hand at invisibility. Opening them again, it appears my attempt was ineffective. So much for stealth.

  “Yes ma’am !” I pipe up.

  My attacker’s voice carries an edge that sends my hair standing on end. “I am a Sir, not a fucking ma’am,” she bristles. “Rank over gender. If I hear that from you again, you’ll be scrubbing every single aircraft in this goddamn hangar until I can see my reflection. Understood?”

  I swallow, careful to put my latest lesson into practice. “Yes, sir!” I shout.

  Appeased, the Flight Captain takes her attention off of me. “That’s more like it! Maybe you'll have the chops to fly after all. That is, if you make it on time to your training,” she quips.

  I haven’t been in my squadron for five minutes and already I‘m getting myself singled out. I make a vow to top the kill board. It could serve as armor against any condescending veterans.

  As the Flight Captain outlines specific orders for each pilot, I take the opportunity to inspect her face. The first thing I discover is that she has one eye. A plain black eyepatch adorns the left side of her head. Behind it, some of the flesh is also missing. A pointed flight cap sits at a jaunty angle directly over the patch, her hair tied underneath, clasped with a golden bow barrette. She’s tall, most likely in her forties. Her presence is severe, and communicates a distinct distaste for bullshit. Above all, she commands absolute respect. I can’t shake the feeling that if my irises so much as twitch, she’ll notice.

  Regardless, I steal quick glances at the pilots around me. They come from all corners of the earth. I guess at a few: Japanese, Italian, Russian, Indian . . . one ghostly white woman I assume is a descendant of what used to be Finland.

  The squadron begins sub-dividing. I decide to stick with the group of people who are closest.

  Deeming that it’s now appropriate to speak, I turn to the pilot next to me. “So where are the newbies?” I ask.

  He glances to either side, unsure of whether he’s breaking some sort of code. “You’re looking at them,” he replies cautiously.

  For once, my intuition pays off.

  I extend my hand. “The name’s Baz.”

  He begins loosening up a bit, extending his own. “Yeti.”

  He’s got a strong handshake. I jot down a mental note that making him an ally is a good choice.

  “Your name’s Yeti?” I ask.

  “Your name’s Baz?, he questions back.

  “Fair enough.”

  The other pilots migrate to their own planes to help perform basic maintenance. Some grab spray cans and begin touching up their plane’s decals, or create new tattoos signifying their call signs.

  Our gaggle of rookies stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do. The click-clack of well-polished boots pierces the air. We turn to see the Flight Captain striding toward us. Stiffening, I do my best to keep at attention. I’ve already started off on the wrong foot, so I’m eager to wipe that slate clean. My efforts are ignored. The Flight Captain stops in front of us, her eye glossing over me as if I don’t exist.

  She adjusts her flight jacket from side to side before addressing us. “Alright rooks, my name is Captain Janna Dixon. As you may have guessed, it’s my job to make sure you sorry pieces of shit don’t cost us money by losing Admiral Khan’s planes. Keep your mouths shut, do what you’re told, and you’ll make it a long way with me.”

  “Any questions?” she asks.

  No one says a word.

  The Captain allows herself to crack a tiny smile for the first time. “Looks like we’ve got a good batch here; you’re learning fast.”

  Still in tight formation, all of the student pilots file into the makeshift classroom that has been hastily set up in the corner of the hangar. Comically small desks sit in rows in front of a patchy, over-chalked blackboard. This is where I’ll learn the basics of flight. Captain Dixon strides out from the group, reaching the small podium in front of the class. All of the pilots freeze, cautiously waiting for her instruction.

  Enjoying her high degree of control, Captain Dixon finally opens her mouth. “Well, I’m not much for the classroom, but considering your teacher, Lieutenant Bohrakati, didn’t make it back from our last scuffle with the Legion, I’m going to have to fill in for now. Everyone take a seat,” she says.

  I find a chair whose seat back doesn’t fold over, and settle in. There is no paper; trees are scarce these days. There aren’t any pens either; ink isn’t exactly a routine commodity. It’s assumed that anyone chosen to be a pilot is fast enough to learn concepts as quickly as they’re presented.

  They’ve grossly overestimated my abilities.

  But as the lesson begins, the smell of oil and the clank of wrenches lull me into a sense of security. This is where I belong. This is my world. I dare to I take my eyes off Dixon, and look at the planes around me. They’re just as I imagined as a kid. Our classroom’s snugly placed in a corner of the Gold Squadron section. All of these planes are purchased and provided by Sanjar Khan himself; thus painted with his trademark black and gold. These aircraft are hardly top-of-the-line. Hell, they’re not even near it. But most of them can take a punch in the mouth and keep bolted together long enough to return fire. That’s a lot more than most crews can ask for these days.

  Gold bows adorn every wing, while the tails of claimed aircraft sport the different pilots’ personal emblems. Out of everything in this hangar, that’s what I want the most. As kids, we picked our favorites. Each veteran having their own emblem, their own brand, made it easy.

  It also made it that much harder when they didn’t come back. If a fallen pilot had been especially valued, their emblem would be “retired” and placed on a shield to be hung on the Wall of Service. The Wall resides on the port side of the hangar. A lot of shields hang there. One shield in particular fights for my attention, daring me to keep my gaze there. I maneuver past it, swinging my focus back to the classroom. There’s no need to let him creep into my psyche now.

  As excited as I am about the prospect of my own emblem, I can't stop the nerves. Traditionally, your own emblem’s bestowed after your first firefight; chosen by surviving veterans. Assuming, of course, that you survive as well.

  After going over the details of landing in midair, the lesson ends. We’re free to go about the rest of our day as we please. As the rest of the student pilots file towards the stairs to the Outer Rim, I catch up with Yeti.

  “It’s Sage, by the way.”

  “That’s not any better than Baz,” Yeti muses.

  “Oh, fuck off. What’s yours?” I ask.

  Yeti squares his shoulders, thrusting his hand at me. “First Airman Ettero Gomez, at your service.”

  “Ettero’s not a real name either,” I quip, shaking his hand.

  For once, meteorology favors us. The storm has passed, and a balmy wind greets our faces when we step out into the Outer Rim. The sun’s just broken over the cloud bank and it’s gorgeous, despite being a little blinding. The rest of the Artemis’ inhabitants also rise. Small stalls cling to the Outer Rim like mushrooms to a tree, vending everything from snacks to ceremonial weapons.

  The passengers of the Artemis tend to use the merchants as a barometer of safety. If no merchants are vending that day, it’s probably best not to go outside at all. Well-connected merchants have ears on the Bridge to find out what other groups are nearby. There’s still a certain tension in the air though. Most of the talk I overhear concerns the Legion.

  No one’s seen a zeppelin yet, but scouts are reporting more and more bogeys in our airspace each day. With their attacks becoming bolder, many of the passengers are preparing to repel a full on assault. I shudder at the prospect of being the first line of defense.

&n
bsp; We make our way through the crowd. The PA’s been converted to pick up the local radio broadcast relay from the settlement below us. The price of grain and soybeans fails to catch my interest.

  “Reports are pouring in that Promontory has fallen to outlaw attack.”

  This piece of information does.

  “Intercepted distress calls indicate high casualties, but no occupying force. Initial impressions point to the attack stemming from a brutal supply raid. Most of the casualties confirmed are civilian; among them is prominent businessman and manufacturer Amani Ibrahim,” the PA states.

  “Amani Ibrahim?” I say, stopping.

  “He owns Kafi Exports, right?” Yeti asks.

  “Well, owned, anyways. He’s one of our major trade partners. At least a quarter of our hold’s made up of his products,” I say.

  My mind races with the implications. I strain to hear more details, but the PA is suddenly silent. That’s odd . . .

  “I wonder what Sanjar’s gonna say about that,” Yeti muses, moving once again.

  I frown at the silent system once more before following his footsteps. If our supplier’s in flux, that could be very bad for business.

  These thoughts are banished when we reach the Veranda, arguably the most eye-catching place in all of the Artemis. Located at the very middle of the ship, the Veranda’s composed of two intersecting circles on both the port and starboard sides of the zeppelin. The deckhands responsible for the maintenance of our balloon remark that the Veranda looks like a thick hourglass from above.

  In addition to the rare open space, the Veranda draws passengers because of its patchwork of designs. Being the most outwardly aesthetic place in the zeppelin also means that it’s the most vulnerable. Its collection of designs stems from the constant need to repair the large holes blasted through its middle during combat.

  It’s not uncommon to witness groups of artisans eagerly awaiting the end of a fight so they can rush to claim new holes. It’s a special honor to have your designs featured on the Veranda, even if their appearance may be brief. The walkway's continual evolution draws crowds who savor the opportunity to view some semblance of art.

  Diversions are scarce these days.

  Admittedly, the swirling patterns and colors draw me in as well when I walk over them. Copper tiles, steel circles, spiraling glass, all meld together to create a makeshift mosaic. At the very center, a small red-haired girl chases bubbles in the wind. Squinting through the sun, I try discerning who it is. Once I see the mountain of a man beside her blowing soap bubbles, there’s no question.

  I turned to Yeti, “Excuse me for a second . . . “

  Yeti looks on in surprise as I start running, pushing past the crowd to get to the inner circle.

  “Aoife!”

  The ginger girl snaps her head up. “Uncle Sage!”

  She runs over in stunted little steps, throwing herself at my chest. Her aim isn’t that good.

  She almost knocks me over as I crouch down to give her a hug. “Hey little lady,” I say.

  I’m not actually her uncle, just her father’s roommate. When I was younger, Olan looked out for me, doing whatever he could when he had the extra time and cash. With a family to feed, it wasn’t much, but it meant everything. Ever since Aoife’s mother died, I just kind of slipped into the role of caretaker. I didn't have anyone else to take care of, so I never saw anything wrong with the arrangement.

  Looking up, I see her father has screwed the cap back on the soap and begun lumbering toward us.

  His bushy red beard separates from his equally shaggy mustache. “Well look who’s alive,” he rumbles, his thick Scottish brogue parting the crowd.

  “C’mon, Olan. Did you doubt me?” I reply.

  Olan catches up to his daughter, placing a giant hand on her head and ruffling her hair. He lowers his voice, “Well you know, you did soak through the stretcher when we carried you out of there.”

  It’s my turn to snap my head up.

  I lower my voice. “You were there?”

  Olan looks down at his daughter, continuing to caress her hair. “You’re not the only one looking for downed pilots you know. Especially if they down themselves right in their own damned hangar.”

  I eye Yeti as he makes his way through the crowd to meet us. “How bad was it in there?”

  Olan rubs his furry chin. “Oh there was quite a bit of fire and brimstone to be had. At least it got those old bastards some exercise.”

  As a member of the boarding crew, Olan holds a similar view of the deckhands as the pilots do: if you don’t hold a weapon, you’re not worth knowing.

  Yeti weaves his way to our triangle, making it a square.

  Olan looks up. “Who’s the lad?”

  Yeti extends his hand, leaning forward. “First Airman Ettero Gomez, at your service sir.”

  Olan takes his hand, raising an eye brow at me expectantly.

  I wave him off. “We’re part of the same flight class.”

  Olan’s laugh booms through the throng. “So it’s true! They’re putting you in a wee jumpsuit, are they?”

  I almost make a sharp comment before noticing little Aoife’s giggling too. She adores her father. Anything he finds funny must be hilarious.

  Disarmed, I just nod, listening to the artisans’ hammering. “I’m a bit surprised there are this many people out today,” I admit.

  Olan leans in, lowering his voice again. “They say that people are trying to get in their last lungful before everything gets all shut up. Word’s about that there might be a siege coming.”

  Yeti leans in as well. “Where’d you hear that?” he asks.

  Olan looks wistfully at his daughter before adding more quietly, “Word on the Bridge is that the Legion zep’s right on our tail . . . Just hiding in cloud cover, waiting for a good chance.”

  I bite the side of my index finger, an odd stress habit I’ve never quite kicked. “Olan, you know what they say about rumors,” I offer.

  Olan walks Aoife out of the center of the Veranda. “Ay, they’re just like clouds:. . . big and ominous until you realize they’re not made from much,” he says.

  Yeti follows us back to the doors, taking one last look over the railing. “Unless they’re thunderheads.”

  4

  The first rays of sunshine pierce through tattered shades. My alarm clock reads 5:58am. Two more minutes of sleep. How useless. My body’s taunting me. What can I possibly accomplish lying here for two extra minutes?

  I jump down from my cot, careful not to wake Olan. Aoife is curled up in her father’s arms, fast asleep.

  Before slipping on my flight jacket, I glance at my back in our cracked mirror. At least it’s a full length. A checkerboard of lacerations and stitches greets me. I hope the next woman I meet really likes scars, because my back’s gonna be a mess once it heals. That reminds me, I haven’t seen the rest of my former crew since the crash. I make a mental note to visit the Roost after training today to see if they’re back on duty.

  Fully dressed, I shut the door as quietly as possible, and make my way down the corridor. The gaudy red carpet curls up to meet my feet as I try not to stumble over it. Bits of mold grow here and there. I add “Cut out affected pieces of the carpet” to my checklist. A cold wind greets me upon opening the hatch of the Living Quarters. Like yesterday, the squalls are too strong for practice. Most planes will be grounded, unless absolutely necessary. Works for me, considering our next lesson consists of sitting in our cockpits, learning the different instruments. Hopefully it’ll also give us time to lick our wounds before the next Legion attack.

  My heart leaps as I enter the Cellar. A line of Jackals, numbered one through sixteen, sits separately from the rest of the hangar. In front of a small table, a rank of cadets forms. By my count, I’m not the last one. Enjoying my personal victory, I join them without incident.

  I’m not in the back this time, and I’m feeling a lot more comfortable than yesterday. As the rest of the students file in, C
aptain Dixon leans against the table. She’s obviously bored, counting down the seconds until 6:15. Her tapping hand indicates she’s looking for something or someone to rip into. This desire is denied though, since every pilot arrives before the clock reaches her deadline. It’s become quite clear, even to the more obtuse pilots, that the Captain is not to be tested.

  The clock’s minute hand hits the large three.

  Everyone straightens as Captain Dixon barks, “As you walk by this table, you will be assigned a number. That number corresponds to the one in front of your designated aircraft. Consider this your wedding. For better or worse, that plane sticks with you. Some of them are some ugly fuckers, but don’t worry, they’ve got more than enough personality to last you.” I look over at the Jackals. Standing over the bold numbers of each plane is a deck technician or ‘Deck Tech’ for short.

  The Captain snarls again, “At each station, you will find your assistant. They’ll teach you the ins and outs of your Jackal.”

  She pauses, looking us in the eyes. “For those of you who have an attitude concerning deck hands, I suggest that you cram it up your ass,” she says, motioning her hand to one of the Jackals. “I would even suggest making friends with your technician, since they’ll be the ones arming your fighter before battle. I’d hate to have you drop without any ammunition.”

  A tall cadet in front sniggers in spite of himself.

  The Captain snaps her head in his direction, taking slow, deliberate steps his way.

  Realizing his peril, the cadet shuts his mouth.

  Captain Dixon walks up to him until they're nose to nose. Cocking her head to the side, she leans in. “It’s fucking happened before,” she says, glaring into his eyes for emphasis before turning to the rest of us.

  “All of you who think you’re hot stuff and better than the deck crew supporting you, it’d be in your best interest to cut that shit immediately. You may be able to pull a joystick faster than them, but they built that fuckin’ joystick. So you best listen up,” she says.

  We all nod in silence.