With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  I hold on tightly as a particularly strong gust takes its turn trying to push me off, mulling over Sabine’s words. Could any of it be true? Even if it is, why would she choose me to confide in?

  As I crest the landing of the perch, I spot a figure hunched under a cloak with binoculars tight to their face. I bring my legs over the top of the ladder as the first drops of rain speckle my boots.

  “Hello Baz.”

  The voice emerges matter-of-factly from under the cloak. She makes no attempt to move from her spot, keeping her binoculars trained out into the distance.

  “Hello Stenia,” I reply quietly.

  She says nothing as I move towards the center of the small perch.

  “How’d you know it was me?” I ask.

  She adjusts a dial on the side of her binoculars with one hand, otherwise remaining perfectly still. “I could hear you. Your weight’s off center. You could fix that if you didn’t keep bringing me food,” she says.

  “I thought you were a fan of our exchanges?”

  She says nothing for a few moments. “What are we trading today?” she asks.

  The loaf of bread sheds a few crumbs as I hand it to her. She takes it without breaking her fixation on whatever point she’s chosen today.

  I clear my throat. “I was hoping I could have your company for a little bit.”

  She gives a curt nod.

  I sit down. The rain drops get heavier, increasing in volume. Residual spray crawls into the covered haven. Tiny rivulets trace the floor, winding their way towards the ladder. Content with her vigil, Stenia takes the binoculars away from her face. Turning, she pushes herself up against the wall of the perch before proceeding to scan me. Her violet eyes sweep from my knit cap down to the toes of my boots, probing for the reason why I’ve come here again.

  While she performs her diagnostic, my gaze wanders away from her eyes, resting instead on her right cheek. A purple crosshair sits there, just beneath her eye. About the size of a fingernail, it’s accompanied by several others of varying sizes and colors. Together, they cascade down her face, continuing past the right side of her neck. The rest remain buried below her dark uniform, uncountable. I prefer it that way; it’s best not to know how many.

  Stenia was one of the kids who ran with my group when we were young. She was a member of our food-finding missions, a participant in our games, always there to be an ear when you needed it. Like any animal, children without supervision find that odds of survival increase in packs. As we grew older and more sophisticated, our packs sorted themselves out by the skills of each member. Thanks to shrapnel, errant bullets, disease, or any other form of Deus Ex Machina, we never had a shortage of new recruits.

  Stenia was never short on survival skills. Not only that, she was my most constant companion in the ship’s library. Even then, she was withdrawn, but she could see and hear things that others couldn’t. Her heightened perception wasn’t overlooked by the powers that be, and she was sponsored for Fleet Defense when she turned fifteen.

  Her straw-colored hair, sharp violet eyes, and uncanny proficiency with a rifle stood out from among the ranks. As a result, she was chosen for special training. Becoming a sniper was natural for her; she was content to sit many long hours without having to talk to anyone, quietly listening, waiting for any sign of danger that might come hunting for us. The long, scoped bolt-action lying on the cotton sheet next to her hip ensures those dangers don’t make it within a quarter mile of the ship.

  My reasons for coming to see her now are two-fold. Both selfish.

  First, when I heard we were destroying the pirate zeppelin instead of letting it float free, I wanted to make sure I got a good spot to see the fireworks. The Bridge was able to trace the ledger of the captured ship back to the British merchant vessel The Cornelia Marie. According to the Northern Expedition Trading Company, the Marie was taken several months ago, with all of the crew presumed dead or captured. It seems I inherited some of them among the band of refugees I volunteered to look after. The Cornelia Marie was deemed too dangerous to let float, lest another pirate group find it and refit it for plundering. In turn, our engineers rigged the Marie’s ammunition to explode remotely. If I squint hard enough, I swear I can see a splotch of Diz’s red hair hovering on the Marie’s deck.

  Second, I need someone with a level head and a tight mouth to discuss my encounter with Sabine. I need to know what to do with the information I’ve been given. With any luck, Stenia will hear me out the same as she did over a decade ago.

  Stenia opens her mouth before I can open mine. “First of all, yes, you can watch the explosion from here.”

  I smile. Her perception’s only become sharper with age.

  Her violet eyes continue dissecting me. “Secondly, you’ve got something weighing on you that you’d like to discuss. Maybe that’s what I heard when you were climbing up here?” she adds.

  I keep my smile. “Right as always.”

  The smile fades as I look out into the steady rain. “Stenia, have you ever known something that could change the course of your life, but you were afraid to act on it because your brain’s at odds with your gut?” I ask.

  She also looks out, mulling over my words. “Baz, it’s my daily duty to call in threats to this ship,” she says. Her voice seems far away. “There are times I’ll be on my tenth or eleventh hour, and I’ll see something flit past in the clouds. Could be a bird, could be a trick of the eye. Chances are that it’s nothing. That I’m just tired.”

  She brings her gaze back up to mine. “But figment of the imagination or not, it’s best to call it in.” Her voice takes a decisive tone. “Because the consequences can be serious if you don’t.”

  It’s my turn to keep my silence.

  She takes the loaf, tearing off the heel. “So what have you got for me?” she asks once more.

  The bread flips back into my waiting hands. I tear off a piece for myself.

  “Well, most important, I’ve got arguably-fresh jam,” I smile.

  Stenia’s eyebrows betray a degree of interest as she reaches her hand back out again.

  I hand her the jar. “Forgot a knife though.”

  “No matter,” she replies, sliding a blade out of her boot strap. She wipes it on her sleeve before tenderly cutting through the initial layer of gelatin, listening intently.

  Taking this as my cue, I relay my odd encounter with Sabine.

  Stenia keeps her silence, as she always does. No interjections impede my train of thought, no excited clips punctuate any of my sentences. She offers no words, not until she’s entirely certain I’ve finished my story.

  A full minute passes.

  “I think she’s telling the truth,” Stenia says softly.

  My eyes detach from the doomed zeppelin, landing back on her.

  “What makes you so sure?”.

  Stenia balls her hand into a fist, placing it under her chin. “This Sabine. The way you’ve described her, she seems like a very strong person. She wouldn’t ask for your help unless she truly needed it.” Stenia pulls her cloak tightly around her shoulders, blocking the spray of the rain. “Asking for help doesn’t seem to be something that she’s used to doing.”

  I reflect on this a moment before admitting, “You know, you’re right. She was very sure of herself. Either that, or she’s an excellent con artist.”

  Stenia seems unmoved. “Well, one way or another, we’ll find out,” she says between swallows. “Until then, consider another lamp lit.”

  “You’d join a cause for someone you’ve never even met?” I ask.

  Stenia leans back up against her wall, nestling into her cloak. “I, like you, have served the Artemis my entire life. Even as kids, this was our home. I’d give my life to defend this ship.”

  A pause settles.

  “So would I,” I whisper.

  “But see, that’s all we’ve ever done. Defend. We coast through the skies from port to port, hoping we don’t get attacked. We’ve never gone on the o
ffensive for as long as I can remember,” she muses.

  Her jaw clenches. “We live in fear. We never get to feel that rush of making the first move, knowing we’ve created that destiny for ourselves. We just sit and wait, hoping the trade’s good at the next port.”

  I push back up against the wall. “Of course - we’re Merchant Marines. We’re not some national fighting force. Open war’s too expensive these days anyways.”

  Stenia fixes me with her violet eyes. “That’s not the point Baz. Since the world went to shit, people are craving a purpose greater than their hand-to-mouth existence. We’ve spent so long trying to get back to where we were, we’ve lost sight of our higher ideals.”

  “What do you mean?” I probe.

  The air smells fresh and moist. “Baz, how frustrating is it that we’re descendants of the first group of humans ever to start over from square one?” Stenia asks.

  I ponder this. “I . . . I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it like that.”

  “Well I have,” she says. “You and I could’ve been sitting in some high-rise right now, sipping some tea. Maybe reading the newspaper in some climate-controlled corner of the world.”

  Storm clouds begin rumbling in the distance. Each flash illuminates her Scandinavian features.

  “Instead, we’re sitting up here in a sniper’s roost 14,000 feet above the ocean, trying to wrap a piece of cloth around ourselves to keep out the rain,” she says.

  I use my finger to redirect a small rivulet that’s seeking to threaten my relatively dry area. “Hey, that’s taller than a high-rise, huh?” I offer.

  She rolls her eyes before tearing off another piece of bread.

  “Stenia, that’s a pretty romantic version of the Old World,” I say. “I mean, if anything the books say is true, those people had weapons that could annihilate the planet with the click of a button.”

  She considers this.

  “At least we don’t have to deal with that anymore,” I sigh.

  Stenia draws her eyes back up to mine. “Well if anything that your Sabine says is true, it seems that we may.”

  She picks up her binoculars again, continuing her scouting. “Moral of the story is that I would very much like to feel something again. Even if only for that reason . . . you have my rifle.”

  “I like her,” The Voice says.

  “You always did,” I mutter under my breath.

  Stenia keeps her binoculars trained. “But from the sound of it, my rifle and your plane aren’t going to be enough to stop a warship that size. On top of that, it looks like there was a hit put out on us,” she warns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The whole Cornelia Marie business.”

  “I thought The Legion were a band of pirates,” I say, pulling my blanket over the back of my neck.

  Stenia lays her rifle over her knees, pulling the cotton cloth over it. “That’s what they would like us to believe,” she says. “I have it on good authority from my source on the Bridge that they were actually a mercenary outfit.”

  I take a deep breath, considering this development. “Who placed the hit? A government? Another privateer group?” I ask.

  “They don’t know. The interrogations are still ongoing. From what they’ve got so far, it looks like it came from an independent interest.”

  “Well they shouldn’t last very long at this rate. They know no one’s coming to save them.”

  Stenia raises an eyebrow. “So we hope. Mercs tend to be a lot more durable than your average pirate. The only info we’ve been able to pull so far is the first name of the man who brokered the deal.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “Noah. That’s the only name the surviving mercs heard in reference to their latest contract,” she says.

  Exhaling, I let my head fall back on the wall. Just what we need. As if there weren’t enough going on already. I pull up my mental checklist: training, lunch, providing food for starving refugees, recruiting warriors to combat a possibly non-existent threat.

  Sounds like a full day.

  Focusing back on the Cornelia Marie, I see our last Helios depart from its deck. The way Diz explained it, we’ve rigged the Cornelia Marie’s own munitions to explode from within. Apparently, the ship’s magazine is too heavy to scavenge without the proper equipment, and it’s only a matter of time before another privateer group smells blood and comes hunting. With any luck, the initial explosion will start a chain reaction, destroying the ship entirely. Either way, it should be a spectacular sight.

  I take a deep breath, allowing myself enough separation from my troubles to enjoy the next fifteen minutes or so.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get on it . . . After the fireworks,” I say.

  The faintest wisp of a smile appears underneath the binoculars. Stenia turns her wrist over, peering at a little black watch. “Should be any second now.”

  The rain thunders on the makeshift roof. The perch shifts underneath us as the Artemis’s engines groan to life once more. Considering the fully-rigged magazine, I realize I’m ok with putting a little more distance between us and the Cornelia Marie before the show begins.

  A crack arcs across the sky. I snap my head up in time to catch the back half of the ship explode. A line of fire races to the bow before the middle of the ship ignites. The brilliance of it makes it appear as though the sun has pierced through the storm clouds, lighting up the world again. The explosion blasts out in a perfect orb, sending a shock wave ripping across my face, causing the Artemis itself to rock. All at once, there’s nothing left but the hiss of super-heated shrapnel as the rain makes contact during its decent. One lone propeller spins a fiery trail towards earth as the ship’s balloon flaps through the sky.

  “Stenia?”

  “What?” she asks, watching the wreckage fall to its final resting place.

  “When all of this is over, for once, I’m going to build something.”

  The rain hammers the panels of the Cellar as I apply a fresh coat of grey paint. Our flight training was cancelled today, but all pilots have been encouraged to partner with their flight technician to perform scheduled maintenance. Since my new Jackal’s seen less action, Ja’el and I don’t have to worry about undiscovered bullet holes or severed fuel lines as much as the other teams. Ja’el was overjoyed upon discovering that I not only survived the last battle, but also succeeded in receiving a call sign.

  “Saber.” Ja’el said, rolling the word around in his mouth.

  It was nice to see him in a state that’s not so severe.

  “I like it,” he deigned, “We must begin tattooing your Jackal immediately!”

  It was my turn to smile. Together we set out to carry on the tattooing tradition long-held by pilots who have successfully received call signs. I’ve already toured the hangar in search of inspiration before beginning mine. Lionheart’s Jackal sports a clawing feline on the tailfin with the lion’s muzzle covering the entire nose cone. An intricate mane flows over the plane underneath the canopy.

  I’m less of a fan of Stinger’s plane, but I’m amazed at his artwork. Both of his wings are covered in an iridescent paint, with interspersed dots and slats mimicking the membrane of a wasp’s wings. Beautiful, but I’d be afraid it would make me more of a target. Maybe he’s willing to trade that for the extra flair it provides.

  One particular style that caught my eye was Tombstone’s design. Nestled in the painted grass underneath his canopy is a well-drawn grave marker. Inscribed on it are the names of the different aircraft he’s shot down. At the time of my encounter, he was painting his sixth victim.

  With all of those ideas in mind, both Ja’el and I have spent several hours on our own aircraft. Together, we’ve already completed a good portion of the art. A large gray scimitar slashes out of the tail fin. Beginning from the left-most part of my engine, a painted laceration cuts through the canopy, ending in a straight line on the right tailfin. I’m working on the detail of the peeling metal when I
hear a familiar voice.

  “Hello Mr. Saber.”

  I steady my balance, looking up from my work. Standing next to my engine, I see Cass dressed from head to toe in Artemis black and gold. It looks like she was finally able to land time off from the infirmary. There isn’t much of that to be had these days.

  She runs her hand across the side of the Jackal, careful not to touch any of the wet paint. “She looks beautiful,” she breathes.

  “I’m glad you like her,”, I say, grinning back up at the design. “Hopefully it’ll strike fear into everyone else.”

  Walking up close, she delicately slips her hand into mine. I give it a small squeeze, painting a few more strokes with the other. Although it’s not uncommon for pilots to flirt or intermingle with other crew, it’s still considered bad form.

  “You didn’t expect to see me here,” she whispers.

  “Not so soon,” I whisper back.

  I attempt to find calm, assuring myself that her time off must mean the infirmary’s having a slow day. In that breath, I sense the brush strokes from Ja’el’s side have slowed down. He’s more skilled in mechanics than subterfuge.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ve made sure the galley’s aware of the refugee’s needs and insured that they’re getting enough of a stipend to stay fed.”

  That is comforting. The cooks have a tendency to trust the nurses more than any of us pilots, and for good reason too.

  Her sea foam green eyes raise up to meet mine again. “Speaking of which, I’m going to make sure they followed through with today’s delivery.” She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me in. “I just wanted to make sure that you were doing ok first.”

  I wrap her up. “Thanks,” I whisper into her ear.