“Everyone grab your number!” she yells.
Filing past the table, I’m handed a card with the number six on it. Careful not to break any sort of code, I stand in the winding line to the properly marked Jackal.
A smile breaks across my face, despite my best attempts to keep it in check. My very own Jackal. Who would’ve thought?
The Captain’s not wrong. The Jackal is an ugly craft. It’s most prominent features are its overlarge engine with matching propeller, upturned wing tips, and tail fins that make a perfect T. The model’s not only easy to build, it packs enough speed and firepower to hang with most aircraft out there. That being said, they’re really no match for Wraiths, the planes heavily favored by the Red Swans.
That fact makes me uneasy. I’ve always wondered what would happen if the Merchant class of the ship all of a sudden felt like wresting control. I shake my head, banishing the thought.
My technician keeps his eyes forward without saying a word. His thick black eyebrows and matching black beard place his ancestry somewhere in the remainder of the Middle Eastern subcontinent. His finger nails are soiled, the rest of his hands bathed in old grease. The tan of his skin camouflages his appearance a bit, but not enough to obscure it.
Not knowing what else to do, I extend my hand out to him. “Corporal Sage Basmon, a pleasure to meet you,” I offer.
The technician looks shocked, tentatively taking my hand. “Specialist Ja’el Hackim, at your service.”
Still lost for words, I try making light of the situation. “So what are the chances you’ll be able to keep me alive?” I ask.
A small smile breaks under Ja’el’s beard. “Well sir, most of that will depend on you. But for your kindness, I will do the best that I can,” he says.
That should be sufficient to break the ice. We both turn, clasping our hands behind our backs, waiting for the Captain’s orders.
Seeing that almost all of the pilots have introduced themselves, Captain Dixon’s voice echoes across the hangar. “Listen carefully now! Knowing which switch does what will be the difference between life and death. I will be making my rounds if you have any questions. Begin!”
I don’t need any encouragement. Bounding up the ladder, I settle into the cockpit. There’s plenty of dust and a few wads of old gum, but everything else seems to be in working order. Ja’el’s face appears at my side, calmly guiding me through all of the different systems. The hangar air fills with the clamor of thirty-two voices as we all learn how to fly our Jackals. At one point in the training, I realize that come tomorrow, I’ll be dropped out that hangar bay all alone. It'll be up to me to know how to turn the nose up, otherwise there won’t be a need for landing gear. That's enough of an incentive for me to create the mental games needed to remember all of the cockpit’s functions.
Night becomes day again. I almost pass out during our first drop. The sheer amount of G force pressing me into the back of the cockpit, coupled with pure stress, is a potent cocktail. Only Ja’el’s voice crackling through the comm gives me something to hold onto.
More days pass. Drilling drops, weapons functions, anything to get us ready. I rebel against the rote learning. Practicing mundane, simple tasks hundreds of times seems useless at first. It’s not until my fifty-seventh hand switch from the monitoring instruments to my joy stick that I realize I no longer need to search for it; it’s part of me now. I don’t need to take precious seconds to look through my cockpit to find anything within it.
The drops never become normal though. The idea of a plane hanging by its wings, hoping the mechanism will release it evenly through a hole cut in the bottom of the ship never loses its terror. I envy the other pilots’ ability to laugh through the adrenaline of being released, their voices crackling through the radio. I realize I’ll never join those ranks.
Hunger rumbles from the pit inside my stomach as Officer Dixon finally grants us the mercy of a reprieve. An afternoon lunch break gives us all time to catch our breath and clear out some of the mental build up. Some perspective pilots break out sandwiches on the spot. Although the open hangar provides substantial ventilation, I need more fresh air than that.
I decide to tag along to the galley with some of the other recruits. I contribute to their conversations where it’s easy. Otherwise, my attention’s fixated on the large bank of clouds sailing to either side of us: giant vapor chasms most could only dream of exploring. Forget some of the rougher points, and the life of an air mariner isn’t so bad.
The door of the galley opens with a whoosh; with it, the smells of meat and rebaked bread waft through. I can detect corn, ham, and some sort of pea mixture. The haul from the Charleston Flats was two weeks ago, so our store of agricultural delicacies is dwindling. The scent of processed seaweed is becoming ever-more present.
Chatter dominates the hall. Favoring beauty over protection, the galley features portholes big enough to lie down on, adorned with a sturdy wooden grain. I wouldn’t want to be here during an assault, but there’s no better place to barter with your newly procured information while pretending you’re eating something other than reprocessed shit.
The line is stagnant, as usual. It’s an incredible phenomenon to me. It’s not like we have much choice in what we’re being served: a protein - how wonderful. A source of carbs – oh, excellent. A vegetable - if we’re lucky. I’m not ungrateful, it’s just the monotonous repetition that wears on me. There are people far less fortunate than us: folks who have no food at all.
The relatively constant flow of foodstuffs has made me complacent. I’ve almost forgotten the hunger I felt as a child. It kept me sharp, because I had to be. Somehow, we always found enough right before we started trying to catch rats, though. This rationed bread may be tooth-chippingly tough and taste like cardboard, but it keeps your stomach from growling for a little while.
Slowly but surely, the line winds around to the unforgiving face of the sous chef. I take the usual: a disk of canned meat splats on the largest partition of my tray. I truly believe in my heart-of-hearts that this once came from an animal, despite all evidence to the contrary. Shaved corn fills in the rest of the holes. What comes next isn’t a vegetable, at least not by my estimation. A cube of condensed seaweed crackles onto the last bit of plastic territory.
The smell assaults my nostrils: it’s the stuff that came with the waves that killed us. It’s also the same stuff that gave us a second chance. Packed full of calcium, iodine, and more protein than most land grown vegetables, it’s what grew under the waves that pushed us up into the mountains. What saved us when we figured out how to harvest it, after we realized we couldn’t eat our guns.
Still tastes like shit though.
A fog of steam covers the line as another set of cubes is dropped into the kitchen pots. Through the haze, I see a face that dissipates all my frustration. Cass’s sea green eyes float through the crowd.
“Hey Cass!” I shout.
Her head pops up, searching for the sound.
“You get a chance to eat yet?” I ask, coming up to her side.
Her lips pinch into a tired smile. “Hi Sage. They let you off from training that easy?”
I laugh. “No, just lunch. Don’t worry, we’re not slacking on the defensive measures.”
She finds a table. “Well that’s a little more comforting. Actually, you’re just the person I was looking for,” she mentions.
My heart double pumps. “Oh yeah?” I venture.
“Yeah, take a seat,” she says, pushing the opposite chair out with her foot.
It’s nice to catch up. With her shifts and my training hours, we don’t get much time to talk anymore. The outside world might ponder why ex-sweethearts would make time to see each other at all, but anyone who’s loved and lost could answer that. Bit by bit, the flakes of seaweed all get sopped up by increasingly pliable bread.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Cass turns her wrist over. “Quarter to noon, give or take.”
Still some
time before our next exercise. “Care to take a stroll?” I ask.
“I’ll have to take you up on that,” she responds, clearing her tray. “It’s too gorgeous not to say yes.”
We step out into the Outer Rim. It appears the wind’s died down quite a bit. Families stroll about in short sleeves. Their children run in front, jumping around, ecstatic at the chance to be outside. Deciding not to infringe on any of the children’s territory, Cass and I stick to the railing as we move through the crowd.
The PA system has now been converted into a music broadcast in place of the news, showcasing an ancient vinyl record playing on an equally antique Victrola. Admiral Khan always did have a penchant for Old World artifacts.
“I’ve got something to tell you, you know,” Cass says. Her eyes lose their playfulness, but gain a smile. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
I furrow my brow, thinking of all of the possibilities. Nothing comes to mind that would make me as angry as the thought of it makes her happy.
“You got me, what is it?” I ask.
The lyrics from the Victrola break through. “I don’t want to set the world on fire.”
Cass brings her sea foam eyes up to meet my blue ones. “I’m applying for transfer.”
She’s right; I don’t like this at all. “You’re what?” I ask.
She repeats herself with more emphasis this time. “I’m getting off this ship.”
My shoulders sink, my chin following, as I glance off to the side.
Her voice rises up from behind. “Hey, I thought you’d be proud of me.”
The lyrics croon back into focus. “I just want to start . . . ”
I turn back, taking in her entire person, face, hair, eyes, body and all. “Cass . . . I am proud of you, but you can’t go. We really need you here.”
“A flame in your heart.” the Victrola punctuates.
Her jaw tightens as her eyes flicker out to the cloud basin. “I know you do,” she says.
She knows I do.
“Cass, there are very few ships along the Appalachian Spine that can match the militia and trade potential of the Artemis. We have it really good here,” I offer.
She wraps her arms around herself, turning away from the wind. “Baz, I know you want to protect me, but honestly, I’m so sick of the never ending stream of bodies coming through our doors.” She tucks in her chin. “I’m so tired of watching people die because some prick wants more than his fair share, and figures that we have it.”
She moves a little closer. “I figure if I transfer to another vessel, I might be able to find a little peace. I love healing people, but there’s no relief here. I wasn’t trained for this kind of trauma care. I really don’t know how many more times I can wrap someone’s intestines back up into their chest.”
I’m speechless; this isn’t the Cass I know. The stress is finally starting to bury her.
“Cass, you could find peace here,” I protest. “I bet with my pilot’s salary, I could prop us both up until you get a chance to set up a smaller private practice. You don’t have to serve in the main infirmary.”
“I wish it was that simple Sage,” she says, her eyes looking up into mine. “Thank you for the offer – but as long as I’m stationed on this ship, I’m going to run to that infirmary after every firefight. The thought of it makes me sick every time, but it’s even worse to think of being a few cabins down and not lifting a finger to help. “
The lyrics strike back up: “In my heart I have but one desire . . . ”
“I . . . I was hoping you would come with me Sage.”
Again, no words come, but the shock has a different origin. I’ve never considered leaving the Artemis before. Sure, thoughts have approached that territory, but they’ve always been shooed away by a subconscious loyalty. The possibility’s terrifying.
And intoxicating.
The PA system echoes. “And that one is you,”
I want to give her an answer, but my mouth’s still dry. She deflects the silence, wrapping her hand around my waist, pulling me to her.
A gust of wind nearly overpowers the tinny speakers. “No other will do.”
She looks up. “Either way, I need to leave soon,” she says.
She’s searching for a sign. Do I leave everything behind, choosing her? Or do I stay with the world I know? Surely, there will be other women? Then again, I know for a fact there are other ships.
“Cass, I’ve lived here my entire life,” I say, “This crew’s more than just a group that makes the ship go . . . They’re everyone I care about. You’re part of that.”
She leans into me. “I know, I know. It’s just that . . . you’ve felt what it’s like to be shut in this deathtrap in the middle of a bombardment. We control nothing. At least you get to point a gun and be part of what happens to us.”
My eyes close. The Living Quarters rise around me, smoke billowing from where the portside wall used to be. Rain hisses into the heat of the fire from a shell that’s just pierced our tiny cabin. Pieces of the flesh that once was my little sister cling to the wall. My mother’s eyes stare upwards, her body riddled with shrapnel. She’s not moving. My father’s not there. If he had been, this wouldn’t have happened.
I’m lucky; I’m hiding under the bed. The angle of impact grants me only minor abrasions and burns. Pela was only six years old. She was only six . . .
I blink back the memory - my physical surroundings seeping back into view.
“Alright . . . I understand,” I relent. “If it means that much to you, we’ll look into booking passage on a different vessel once we reach Shipwreck.”
I feel sick: the kind of remorse that comes only after making a spontaneous decision. I need to look at my pilot’s contract to see if a transfer off the Artemis is even legally possible at this point. They certainly won’t let me take my Jackal with. Who says the ship we book would even have a hangar to store one?
Unaware of my struggle, Cass’s eyes light up, nearly banishing all practical worries from my mind. It’s the kind of reaction I always wanted but never got, even when we were together.
“Cass I . . . “
A white light blips around the Outer Rim.
The crowd freezes.
The white light goes off a second time.
Silence hangs in the air.
The Victrola scratches, silencing the music. The PA system shuts off.
My jaw tightens.
The white blips flash into glowing red alarms. A siren screams: it’s an air raid. A zeppelin’s been spotted.
Cass’s hands turn white against the railing.
“But, we’re not leaving just yet!” I yell.
The crowd explodes into chaos, pushing, shoving and shouting.
I take her hands, yelling over the sirens, “You know what to do!”
She looks up at me, yelling back, “Don’t do anything stupid! Come back to me in one piece, ok?”
Without thinking, I pull her in, planting a kiss on her lips. The wet warmth sparks a surge of adrenaline.
She’s surprised. I don’t know, I figured I might as well. Maybe she doesn’t want to stray back into that mess, but I’d kick myself in the grave if I’d never given it one more shot. Consuming all the time we can afford, we push away.
Our lips break apart. “We’ll be ok!” I yell.
Recollecting herself, Cass gives a curt nod before sprinting off to the nearest bulkhead.
5
I pause, realizing my post isn’t in the Roost anymore. Pushing through the crowd, I try making my way to the Cellar’s bulkhead. It’s absolute pandemonium. People yell out names of separated loved ones, while others dive head long into doorways, getting away from the Outer Rim. I feel guilty running through civilians, but I have priority. The Albanian man I just knocked over may be mad at me now, but I’m sure he’d much rather trade the collision for an extra plane in the air.
But that’s just it! I’m no pilot. I’ve never flown a Jackal in combat. The
y can’t really expect us to fly without full training, right?
As I catch sight of the Cellar’s bulkhead, the gun port doors begin flying up along the wall. They’re three-foot thick steel, engineered to envelope the Living Quarters and cargo hold of the Artemis when it exposes its guns. Although they serve as excellent protection for both human and inanimate cargo, the gun port doors are known to cause grisly accidents: they have a tendency to slam up into the Outer Rim without warning.
Civilians pour through open doorways as uniformed officers of the Artemis’ boarding crew dodge out to direct traffic. Many of the marines stand at the doorways with one foot on the port door below them, ready to block any incoming civilians if the door launches upwards.
Two doors down from the Cellar’s bulkhead, a gun port door slams up, launching a boarding crew member ten feet in the air. He flips over before crashing back down on his shoulder. I hear an audible snap as he cries out. Communication between the boarding and gun crews has never been perfect. Two fellow crewmen pull him into the next bulkhead before it too, slams up into the ceiling’s frame.
I sprint past the armored door, finding the entryway of the Cellar. As I cross the threshold, our flak cannons start drumming. Those enemy fighters are right on top of us. That zeppelin can’t be far behind either.
I’m not the only pilot clattering down the steps. We all make our way to the central meeting area. I stop, looking up at the mission platform. Janna Dixon stands there with the same poise I saw this morning. The woman is incredible; I don’t believe she ever changes out of uniform.
Veteran pilots sprint around me, leaping into their planes, making final take-off checks. A small, confused group of rookies stands to the left of the platform.
Captain Dixon looks down at us. “You’re probably asking yourselves if you’re going to be flying today,” she says, folding into her flight jacket. “Truth be told, I’m not going to tell you to drop today if you don’t think you can handle it.”
She strides across the platform, cocking her head to the side. “Frankly, we don’t have the resources to drop you out of the ship and waste a perfectly good aircraft.” She turns, facing all of us. “However, if you do think you have the chops, you better fucking be out there, because I don’t have the numbers to be able to spare pilots.” Her eye fixes on me. “Otherwise, it won’t be my fault if you’re sitting in here getting cooked alive while this metal prison falls to earth because you didn’t have the balls to fly out and defend it.”
With Eyes Turned Skyward Page 5