I grin in spite of myself.
Ettero backs up, raising his hand like a gun. “Just make sure you don’t get eaten by the wrong kind of predator,” he winks, firing in my direction. “Keep safe!”
With that, he runs off back to his plane, leaving me to wonder how someone who’s never had a formal education could be so well versed in double entendres.
The cranes move overhead, transferring the departing Swans toward the front hatch. Listening to the electrical hum from above, I secure my plane and perform some last minute detailing. Before leaving, I reach into the cockpit and pull out my sidearm. It won’t be much in the face of what we might encounter out towards the Treeline, but Cass and I have to make it there first.
The animals aren’t the indigenous species I’m worried about.
I step back out into the Outer Rim. Rooftops flit past, almost scraping the bottom of our ship. We’re flying in low, but that’s what has to be done to make it into Shipwreck’s capital docking bay. Once it was found again, Shipwreck’s port became the hub of all its economic activity. The rest of the city spirals out from there. Plumes of steam rise high above the balloon, and its dark streets below are packed with denizens. Unlike most other ports, the people of Shipwreck never tiled their roads, so transportation’s a mess.
Zeppelins and planes of all shapes and sizes buzz by, turning their wings towards their respective destinations. As with most ports these days, the mix of nationalities is readily apparent. An Iranian flag hangs off the back of the merchant class zeppelin sliding behind us, while a Russian one billows behind a hulking destroyer in the distance. Although I’m sure they mean no harm, an airship that well-armed still makes me nervous.
On our approach to the docking bay, I pick up the hum of the giant magnets within the shipyard. Through plenty of trial and error, the shipwrights found the best way to “catch” a zeppelin was not to touch it at all. This discovery came about when the Swedes discovered they were able to control a zeppelin’s approach speed using large, negatively charged magnets. As a result, most of the hulls these days are also charged negatively to ensure they don’t collide with the trade docks.
Although I’ve seen it countless times, I still can’t help being fascinated by how we come into port: men and women in blue caps and overalls scramble up and down the dock. The port magnets increase their hum, buzzing disconcertingly.
A large fresco of a wooden galleon beached on a cluster of rocks over an orange background decorates the docking tower. The emblem of Shipwreck watches over us. We’re finally safe.
My grip tightens on the railing as the Artemis’s momentum decreases. As we slide along the edge of the dock, the wardens shout their coordination and throw lassos onto the ship from either side. One lasso misses its target, landing ten feet away from me. Sprinting over to grab it, I try finding the docking rung where it belongs. Shouts come from below. The workers point excitedly about fifteen feet to my left. Following their directions, I see the rung. Just as I feel the lasso losing slack, I successfully slip it over the post.
Cheers rise up from below as the lasso tightens against the rung, helping slow us down to a manageable crawl. Mixed in with the sound of humming magnets, the clicks and pops of winches make their presence known. With most of the lassos secure, the ground crew finally brings us level with the dock.
Once the ramps are down, our entire crew bursts over the sides. Civilian or otherwise, people are just happy to be safely on solid ground again. The feeling’s usually short lived, but getting a break from air travel is worth every dollar spent on diversions.
As I glance at the trucks making off with our former passengers and refugees, one person stands out from the rest. Cass sits on a post at the bottom of the gangplank, sporting a smile that I pledge to myself to make appear every day. A shawl covers her head, complete with sun glasses. She lifts her shades up as I make my way to her. The mid-morning sun glints off her green eyes as their sea foam color bubbles up. It’s good to be back on the ground again.
Crossing the etched mud field to the post, I let her wrap me up in her arms. Planting a kiss on my top lip, Cass looks over my shoulder.
“Have you seen her up close since we left the Charleston Flats?” she asks.
Turning around, I take in a full view of the Artemis for the first time in weeks. Gashes have left huge scars across large sections of the ship. Plastic sheets cover the sizable holes punched through the hull, and burn marks appear like tattoos along the sides of port holes.
I let out a low whistle. “Well, at least the Admiral has some time to allow for the repairs.”
Cass’s eyes turn their focus back to me. “You think we’re going to stay here a while?”
I survey the rest of the dock. “If you take into account the time the merchants need to move their cargo on and off the ship, plus the time it’s going to take rooting the officers out of the local taverns, I’d say we’ve got ourselves at least a couple of days.”
Cass’s eyes widen. “Yeah?” she asks hopefully.
Betraying a smile, I remind her. “Plus there’s the fact that we need to go on that adventure I’ve been promising you.”
Cass lets out a laugh, kicking herself off of the post. Brushing the dirt from her cloth pants, she shakes her arms out. “Ok . . . I’m ready,” she breathes.
We wind our way down the streets, making muddy, sucking tracks as we go. Once we are outside the docks, we make no motions to indicate we’re connected in any way. As Cass is well aware, we don’t want to give onlookers the idea that one of us might be worth ransoming.
Stalls choke the side streets like plaque as we blood cells try our best to push through. It’s impossible not to get accosted by the overzealous vendors. Decaying chicken is shoved in my face repeatedly. Fine-spun rugs hang everywhere. One enterprising storekeeper is selling all shapes and sizes of teeth. Although most of them appear to originate from various, odd creatures, a particular string of familiar looking molars makes me feel very uneasy.
Steam billows from the manufactories lining the sidewalks. Industry has come to Shipwreck and its tendrils are taking hold stronger than anyone could have expected. From inside, metric ton hammers stamp out the latest casts of whatever modern marvel’s being commissioned. There’s something reassuring about that consistent hammering. It resembles a heartbeat, one that sounds permanent. Yet, of all the things we could create, we choose to manufacture guns and iron blades.
Bikes and motor vehicles splash to and from their destinations. The taste of oil’s thick in the air. Cass and I dodge through traffic towards the barely visible forest in the distance. We spend the rest of the day making our way from the port to the very edge of the trading post before the sun finally gives out. As the lamplighters patrol the streets with their candles, we figure it’s time to end our journey for the day.
The road to the clearing camps is not one to travel at night.
The outskirts of Shipwreck are less claustrophobic than its beating city center, and Cass and I are able find a homey enough inn that will suit our needs for the night. I’m glad we can finally step onto a solid stone entryway. It’s obvious we’re reaching the edge of town: each step we take begins to sink into the mud a little more deeply, dredging up small puddles of water.
A tiny bell chimes as Cass and I duck our heads into the vestibule. It’s odd that such a little sound like that can evoke such a sense of home. That feeling is magnified by the flavors wafting through the air from the inn’s kitchen. Some meat’s being spiced, and I can hear the chef chopping what could be potatoes. My stomach growls audibly. Reading Cass, I can tell her body’s responding the same way. We haven’t eaten unpreserved rations in over a month. The sheer thought of fresh food is almost enough to sway us from our mission. The possibility of just using our dock leave here and spending our money on racks of lamb is enough to make me wipe the side of my lip; rogue saliva’s making a break for it.
That would certainly be the easier task anyways. In my experien
ce, clearing camps have always been a wealth of information. The seajacks and camp guards living and working there are often quite liberal in dispensing their knowledge, but they’re a rough sort. It’s the perfect place to get away from the watchful eyes of Artemis officers to find out the latest movements of our Cascade friends. And to find out if they even exist.
As I attempt to refocus on the mouth-watering food, which I know for a fact exists, a song breaks out in the dining area. Cass and I peer in. We’re greeted by a gaggle of Germans who have annexed both the bar and the surrounding territory of chairs. One’s equipped with a fiddle, and a young, brown-haired soldier appears to be leading the chorus. He belts out an age old drinking song, much to the chagrin of the Turks trying to study the Qur’an in the corner.
Cass’s eyes light up as she leans into me. Something about song reinvigorates her. It’s not uncommon for me to tease her about absent-mindedly singing a tune while she’s tending to her patients; it’s a way for her to cope with her surroundings. The songs she sings are always happy ones, both in tempo and lyric. She’s created a partition her mind. In the moments she’s suturing up a little boy’s arm, or putting a blanket over the slacken face of a corpse, she can live inside those lyrics and have some peace, even if only for a little while.
As much as I’ve teased her in the past, I have to admit the Germans’ rousing music lights a small flame inside me that seems content to burn for rest of the night if I let it.
“We should join in,” I say, looking down at Cass.
She looks back up, smiling. “But I don’t know any German.”
I keep my grin, glancing back at the group. “It can’t be that hard. Just raise your voice and mumble some guttural sounds,” I joke. “We’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
Cass’s playful punch catches me square in the chest before I get a chance to defend myself. Instead of pressing the attack, she pulls me out onto the floor and we join our Eastern compatriots. Delighted with our participation, the Germans pull us in as they would their own. While the empty beer glasses accumulate on side tables, they slowly transition to more mainstream songs so we can sing along too.
I hate dancing. The actual body movement isn’t what’s irksome, it’s the judgment of everyone around you. That being said, all of our would-be judges are far too drunk and jovial to pass critique on anyone, much less me with my awkward, stilted movements.
The night rolls on in this fashion without incident. Well, almost without incident. Between the beers and merriment, one of the fresher faced soldiers makes a play for Cass. Encountering her laughter, he decides it’s best to settle as song mates rather than soul mates. To tell the truth, I can hardly blame the kid: it takes some balls to approach a woman that way, especially when her guy’s standing right next to her. Little bastard.
Long after the Turks clear out to find a quieter place to study, Cass and I break away from the crowd. We have a long journey tomorrow, and we need all the rest we can get tonight. After reserving one of the last available rooms, we hiccup and stumble up the stairs, singing half-remembered foreign anthems. Leftover music wafts its way up beside us.
Somehow we get to our room and startle fumbling with the keys. By the grace of greater powers, one of us is able to find the keyhole and apply enough pressure to make the door give way. Without a word, we tumble onto the bed. Through kisses and muffled laughter, I try to see if I can recollect a happier memory. Nothing comes to mind.
Cass rolls over on top of me, kicking the door shut with her foot. Using the momentum of her strike to kick off one of her shoes, she looks up, suddenly stiffening. Her immediate response is enough to make me panic. I reach down instinctively for my gun. She doesn’t breathe; instead, her sea colored eyes fix on a point across the dark room.
“What is it Cass?” I whisper though clenched teeth.
Cass slowly pushes herself off of me and flicks on the light switch. “It’s beautiful,”, she says.
Carefully, I turn myself over to look at the intrusive object behind me. Hidden away in the corner is a squat, ugly, upright piano. The thick layer of dust on its key guard leads me to believe it hasn’t been played in a very long time. Cass slowly makes her way over to the corner, softly laying a hand on its side. Her slight contact reveals a swath of darker wood underneath the dust coating that’s taken up residence.
“Do you know how to play?” I ask, crawling to the nearest corner of the bed.
Cass carefully opens the key guard with a squeak. “I did once.” she says. “It’s been a very, very long time,”
She gingerly traces her finger across the contrasting ivory keys beneath. Musical instruments are a rarity; using precious wood to create instruments that don’t directly contribute to one’s survival is considered by most to be a waste of resources. I thought our run-in with the fiddler below would’ve been the extent of our melodic discovery for the night.
“How could they just leave this piano up here to waste away?” Cass whispers.
I perch my chin on my hand. “I suppose it’s easier to manage it as a regular piece of furniture than it is to maintain it as a musical instrument.”
Her eyes still haven’t left the keys.
“Why don’t you try it out?” I ask quietly.
“It’s probably way out of tune,” she says. “I bet half the keys don’t even work anymore.” Her response is quick, but tinged with the hope she’s wrong.
Rolling on to my back, I stare at the ceiling. “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” I sigh.
There’s a creak as she tentatively pulls out the seat. Exhaling, I close my eyes. One solitary “plink” comes from the corner.
“The resistance feels weird, but I think I can make it work,” she says confidently.
“The resistance?” I mutter.
She silently fingers the keys, taking up her position. “Yeah, the resistance of the keys. If the friction of the keys isn’t right as you strike them, it can be really hard to play.”
I wipe my face, sniffing. “I’m hardly one to judge.”
She doesn’t need my permission. Instead, she revives the piano with an escalating melody. It’s short and stilting at first, but she plays with the range of the instrument, building the notes into something beautiful.
It seems we’re keeping with our German theme tonight, since I’m almost certain what she’s playing is Bach. Or maybe he was Austrian? I can’t remember. I can’t name the song either. All I know is that it’s breath-taking, even if the keys are slightly out of tune as the piano struggles against its age.
My body rises off of the bed, carried by the mountains and valleys generated by Cass’s fingers. The day’s stress seeps away. Old scars slowly fade into the background as I let myself float away from all of it. For once, I remember my mother’s face in a rare moment when she was happy. Surely there’s no therapy greater than this.
On the way back down, the quiet melody plays out its final note. I let myself open my eyes. The ceiling comes back into focus, but my limbs won’t move from their relaxed state. Cass exhales, shaking herself out. It seems that she went on a journey too; probably much farther than I did.
The bench creaks as moves herself off of it. “You know, despite what you may think, it’s actually to your advantage that we got interrupted by this old clunker,” she says.
I look up towards my forehead, anticipating her face coming into view as she makes her way over to the bed. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I ask.
Her body hums as she hovers over my face from the side of the bed.
Her lips lock with mine. She takes her time, before pulling away just enough to whisper, “Because Bach turns me on.”
12
Wind floods past as the cockpit cuts through the air. There’s a lot of them, but I know we can still win this. I gasp for air, trying to keep calm. The sun’s so hot. . . too hot to be the end of Autumn.
Even as I look through the sights, I can feel her there; her cold silent stare bores into my exp
osed neck. Instinctively, I move to wipe the feeling away from the back of my head. I don’t want to look back. I don’t want to meet her gaze. I haven’t seen her face since she died that day on the deck of the zeppelin. I’m afraid of what might happen if I look at her now.
The leather pulls as hands creep up the back of my seat. Hunching forward, I try to avoid the gripping fingers. I accidently press the controls in, sending the plane pitching forward violently. The engine’s overpowered by wind speed as we rocket straight down.
I strain to correct the instruments, but the joystick bursts into flame. In a panic, I fight to get a hold of the burning stick to right the plane. The sheer heat of the fire burns deep scars into my hands. Ripping them away from the blaze, I place them over my face, hyperventilating. Deep disfiguring marks carve themselves into my fingers. The ground rushes up. I don’t know what else to do but yell. There’s nothing else. As the scream surges up from my lungs, icy hands grip over my mouth.
I jolt awake. Bolting upright, I shudder, fighting to control my breathing. My side of the bed is soaked through with sweat. On the other side of the mattress, Cass is curled up in the covers, fast asleep. By some miracle, my thrashing didn’t wake her. I swallow, trying to get my bearings. My heart’s beating too fast for me to lie back down. I feel sick just thinking about it.
I try clearing my eyes, but wiping them does nothing to bring clarity. The bleariness of sleep follows me out of bed as I rock to my feet. I look outside, but the only thing the window frames is darkness. I make my way over to the only other familiar object in the room. Near the window, the piano sits motionless, silently keeping watch.
I press my hand up against it. I have the odd feeling that it’s tense as well. Peering outside once more, I notice the fringes of a sunrise peeling back the deep black of night. It’s disorienting seeing buildings perched underneath the horizon, but I could get used to it. So stationary. But something about it is still unnerving. I glance back at Cass, trying to let my anxieties dissolve once again. The selfish part of me wants to wake her up and have her play another movement to settle me down. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I did.
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