With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  It’s time to decide. What am I? A soldier? Or a coward.

  “Cass, let’s just get home,” I say quietly. “Let’s all just get home.”

  She says nothing back.

  At least cowards live.

  Squinting westward, I follow Yeti’s plume of smoke. The sun bleaches the sky red as it slowly sinks beneath the clouds. In the next few hours, Yeti strays off course several times, gliding listlessly to the left or right. Each time, I yell into the speaker until his plane snaps back to its original heading. We have a lot more riding on him than just our friendship. If we lose him, we lose the Artemis.

  But as darkness falls, the clouds give way to a familiar form. The Artemis glides through the sky, accompanied only by lapping trails of smoke. It didn’t make it out of Shipwreck before Cascade fighters found it.

  “Sage . . . ” Yeti’s voice is almost impossible to hear over the roar of the engine. “Can you hail the Artemis, man? I need to . . . ”

  My attention snaps to the comm. “Hey, hey, hey . . . Yeti - stay with me ok? We’ll get clearance in no time,” I assure him.

  Only silence greets me on the other end, but Yeti keeps his course.

  “Artemis Actual, are you there?” I ask, switching frequencies.

  A young woman with a French accent crackles in. “This is Artemis Actual. What is your call sign pilot? Know we have cannons trained on you and your escort, and that we are fully prepared to fire.”

  Understandable, given the ship’s limping state.

  I try being clearer. “I . . . I think you’ve got it turned around Artemis Actual. This is Sergeant Saber of Gold Squadron. I’ve commandeered a Shipwreck fighter and have RN Dawson onboard. I’m currently escorting Airman Yeti and his Artemis bound Jackal. He’s in desperate need of medical attention. Requesting permission to land.”

  The comm clips out as I hear Artemis Actual pull away from the microphone. That’s odd. Our scouts should be able to see Yeti’s in dire need. I glance at the nests, hoping to catch the glint of Stenia’s scope with the last of the dying sunset.

  Worried, I look back. “What do you think Cass?” I ask.

  Her features tell me what I already know. “I think we should be ready to jet, if it comes to it,” she says.

  Exhaustion hangs on her words. The back-lit ports of the Living Quarters taunt us with their warmth. A nice, safe bed. So close . . .

  The static makes way for a voice. “This is Artemis Actual. You are cleared for landing,” she says.

  My head bobs, fighting the urge to fall asleep right in the cockpit. We have one last task before that can happen. Why did it take her so long to clear us?

  Cass’s voice pipes up. “I’m worried about Yeti. You think he’ll able to thread the needle?”

  I look at his stricken plane. The fire’s stopped, but his control’s a lot stiffer than before. His hydraulics are on their last leg.

  “He has to,” I say.

  I corral Yeti, helping him circle up behind The Artemis. The docking crew lowers all of the sky hooks from above, deploying every one they have. All we have to do is catch one each. We both decrease our speed, approaching the contact point.

  We can do this.

  “Pop it!” I yell to Yeti.

  His bar jumps up from the front, framing the top of his cockpit. Struggling through the different instruments, I find my own roosting gear. I pull the lever, watching the docking bar fly up over my head. This fighter’s much bigger than weight regulations allow for the sky hooks.

  This might not work.

  Slowing down behind Yeti, I try boxing him so he’ll thread on the first try. Luckily, he’s always been much better at it then I ever have. Even in his state of blood loss, his technique is solid. The hook clangs against his bar, snapping the Jackal up towards the hangar bay. Yeti cuts his engine; most likely losing consciousness directly afterwards. With one emergency taken care of, I turn my focus to saving Cass and myself.

  Our docking mechanism doesn’t provide very much clearance between the cockpit and the bar itself. This aircraft was obviously meant to land on the ground, with the air bar as an afterthought. With no functioning landing gear, the Roost is not an option.

  The Cellar will have to do.

  The iron hook hurtles at us. Cass shrinks down in her seat, abandoning her gun. One wrong twitch and I’ll send the hook right though our canopy. I duck as the hook’s shadow flits past my face.

  The bar catches, bucking our cockpit up violently. The hook strains, pulling our plane towards the hangar.

  Panicking, I reach over and cut the engine. The fighter shudders to a halt as the crane above hauls its prey up into its web. The plane swings forward and back with the wind, sending Cass gripping for the sides of the canopy. The lone cable holding us aloft twists and turns against the weight.

  Somehow, it holds as we rise into the light.

  14

  I yawn, fighting back the exhaustion plaguing us. We’ve accomplished the impossible. We not only survived . . . we made it home. The flood lights of the hangar pour in through the cockpit like a downy, luminescent blanket. Breathing a sigh of relief, I let myself relax for the first time in hours.

  I glance down at our odd orange craft. We must look awfully out of place. The size alone is going to cause logistical issues. I rock up in my seat. They’re not going to have room to set us down!

  “Cass, I just realized this plane can’t clip its wings. They won’t have any place to put us,” I say.

  “Sage, it looks like they’re going to have plenty of room . . . ,” she replies quietly.

  Confused, I look over our left wing at the floor of the hangar bay. What was a tightly packed living area populated with pilots and planes alike, now houses a much sparser collection of both. I can’t make sense of it.

  “How are we missing so many?” I ask in disbelief.

  Cass shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  Our crane finds a bald spot on the deck and begins lowering us. Before the hull even touches the hangar floor, Cass throws her legs over the side of the cockpit.

  She turns her head, holding onto the fuselage. “I’m going to make sure Yeti’s ok. Check us in, and find Sabine. We need to tell her about what we saw.”

  Before I can reply, she’s already disappeared over the side. I let out sigh: the double edged sword of loving a woman who knows what she wants.

  The crane sets the fighter down on the deck. It immediately lists to the side. The destroyed landing gear strains to bear the weight for a few moments, but crumples despite its best effort. Sliding back the cockpit, I fight gravity’s attempt to pull me back over the other side of the plane. Climbing down over the crippled fuselage, I try finding the nearest face I know.

  I find it with Lieutenant Baltier. The middle aged Australian seems equally intent to greet me. As commander of the local Red Swan’s charter, he’s a fierce fighter, and even more protective of his source of income: namely, Admiral Khan.

  Two dock technicians rush over with a dolly table full of tools. I try getting their attention, but they pay me no mind as they start their work on my plane. Classic deckhand etiquette.

  I hail the Australian. “Is that you Mr. Baltier? Good to see you Lieutenant!”

  Baltier clenches his rifle in his left hand, closing the distance between us.

  “Likewise,” he says.

  His fist catches me across the jaw before I even see his arm move. Pain explodes as white lights dance around my cornea. Stunned, I throw an arm out, spinning to the ground. My mind flits from scenario to scenario.

  Why?

  Seeing double, I look past Baltier’s polished boot. A platoon of armed soldiers crosses the hangar towards us. This can’t be right.

  Instinctively, I struggle to pull my knees underneath me to get to my feet. The Lieutenant doesn’t like this. His hand claps under my throat, slamming me flat on my back over the rolling workbench behind us. The tools pierce into my back.

  The two crew members
scatter as Baltier pulls up alongside the bench, tightening his pincer grip. The sinews of my throat strain against his clamped hand, fighting for air. Dark spots blot my sight. Kicking, I thrash against his superior positioning. I succeed only in knocking the rest of the displaced tools onto the hangar floor, making even more noise.

  It’s just enough of a commotion to pull Cass’s attention away from Yeti’s wounds. I hear her cry out as her footfalls pound towards us.

  Baltier nods to the other guards. Their boots hit the ground, rushing to meet her.

  Apparently they underestimate her as an easy takedown. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the armed men crash to the deck. Despite the initial strike, I hear the fight turn against her as other guards rush to assist. She may have been able to subdue one opponent, but she can’t overcome all three.

  Blood rushes past my ears as a dark circle creeps in around my vision, closing in quickly. Realizing he’s about to choke me out, Baltier releases the pressure just enough to allow me a quick breath. I pull in a ragged cough, pushing the circle back into my periphery. I greedily suck in air while I still have the luxury.

  Baltier leans down and asks me one question. “Are you Sergeant Sage Basmon, call sign ‘Sabre’?” he asks with unblinking eyes.

  I thought we knew of each other from serving the Artemis during previous voyages. Baltier’s led our Red Swan charter for at least three years. Utterly confused, I look into my attacker’s face. His fixed gaze tells me he already knows the answer. I consider my options. Since they already have Cass, those choices are considerably more limited. There’s really not much I can do but tell the truth.

  “Yes, I am,” I wheeze.

  Baltier let’s go of my throat, straightening up over the bench.

  “I thought so,” he grins.

  The butt of his rifle closes the dark circle for good.

  Shadows swirl together and break apart. There’s no rhythm to it. It’s very distracting. The only constants are two yellow lines on either side of my conscious, dancing along the borders, back and forth, swaying to some unpredictable beat. I know that pattern from somewhere . . .

  Peering through the mist, I try breathing. It works, but I barely get enough oxygen. My nose is clogged and useless. I lick my tongue over the tops of my teeth, making sure each one is accounted for. They’re all there, but my lips are ragged from the impact of the rifle. The sides of my cheeks taste like blood.

  I would’ve checked all of this with my hands, but they’re wrenched behind my back, bound with twine. Whoever tied the knot pulled it far too tightly. My shoulders strain at the seams.

  The dancing yellow lines to my right and left aren’t a path through the astral plane after all. The golden striping of the uniformed marines flanking me bleeds into clear focus. The knit lines on the right are frayed, pulling at the rest of the fabric. Either the marine holding my right arm has seen action, or just got dealt a rough hand when his uniform was assigned.

  The dull pain in my knees pulses as they drag me across the floor. I make no attempt to get up. I don’t think they realize I’m conscious. Maybe I can play it to my advantage. The least I can do is make it difficult for them to carry me.

  My eyes sliver open again as we approach two heavily armed guards flanking a blast door. It’s armor plated. Is it meant to keep people out . . . or in? The guards’ boots click as the door opens. Cool air whooshes past. The sound dampens. I take another chance by opening my eyes into slits.

  Everything’s back-lit with a green hazy glow. Tight lipped personnel shuttle from station to station. Holographic projections plot every course, divulging all types of information. Colors change on a flickering cross sectional layout of our engine room. Apparently whatever issue that arose has just been solved.

  This is the Bridge.

  I thought this kind of technology only existed before The Drowning. What else is the Admiral keeping from the rest of the crew? I’ve never been close to the Bridge before. Even the Bridge personnel tend not to mingle with the rest of the population. The few times they do, they never betray much about their jobs. For the safety of the Artemis, of course.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I turn my head to take it all in. Guiding lights blink blue and red on either side of the plate glass windows that extend out to the ends of the giant oval cockpit. A deep darkness spreads out beyond them. The bend of the outside light betrays that the glass is incredibly thick. Direct hits were definitely considered when the Bridge was engineered.

  “To my quarters please,” Admiral Khan’s voice says sedately over the intercom.

  My captors shift their course, dragging me down a ramp towards another door. A sign with the embossed letters “Admiral’s Quarters” glints over the doorway. As my knees bump over the entrance, a luxurious recording of classical music replaces the fading sound of machines whirring on the Bridge. The melody dances emphatically around the room, entirely unaware of the dire circumstances lying within. The door shuts behind me. The volume of the recording rises, no longer able to escape out into the corridor.

  My knees meet some comfort as they make their way onto a plush carpet from some distant land. Probably the Turkish Coast. Knowing the Admiral, he didn’t get this from a local marketplace. He probably flew over to the source and hand-selected the piece himself. Why spare any expense when you’re King?

  Equally lush looking couches flank a table where the Admiral’s cherished Victrola is perched. The intercom isn’t hooked to the box. We’re the only ones who get to enjoy this show. Aside from the music, rich tapestries adorn the wall. They vary from stylized scenes of battle, to a nude woman who appears entirely disinterested in the fact that she’s being captured in oil.

  I hear the Admiral before I see him.

  Thud. Thud . . . Thud.

  “I’m sorry to see you here Sergeant Basmon,” he says to the wall.

  The Admiral bleeds into view, pulling his custom knives out of a cork target. I search the wall around it looking for punctures caused by missed throws. There aren’t many.

  “I am too,” I say, allowing my consciousness to be known.

  The knives click as the Admiral grinds them together in his hand. He turns away from the board and approaches me with deliberation.

  “It’s truly painful . . . this business,” he says, haphazardly throwing the knives on his desk. The small lamp on his table shakes, sending the shadows on the Admiral’s face dancing eerily.

  “You know, I gave you every chance to succeed here. Set you up for success,” he says.

  His eyes hide beneath the darkness created by his prominent brows.

  “Tried to guide you on a more profitable and fulfilling path.” He gestures down to the cargo hold below. “Give you power. Give you respect . . . Things most men lack!” he says, spitting out the last sentence. Hurt oozes from the Admiral‘s voice. “And instead of using all of these privileges to better yourself and everyone else around you, you use it to try to grab even more power. Mine. The very source that granted yours.”

  The knot tightens in my chest. The pacts. He knows about them. Does he know who was involved?

  “Admiral, I think we have a misunderstanding . . . ”

  Before I can say another word, the Admiral clasps his hand around my throat. Clutching his powerful fingers around my neck, his strength lifts me from my knees. I sputter, kicking out with my bound legs. He makes no movement other than looking me straight in the face. His grey eyes fix on mine with a hatred I’ve never seen before.

  Spittle and disgust fly at me with every word. “I hear tell of my men, MY MEN, swearing oaths.” His arm strains against my weight. “Swearing oaths to some upstart FUCK of an officer, who thinks he can lead this crew better than I can! Do you know what it’s like to hold this ship together in its current state? Why would you jeopardize EVERYTHING, just for your own benefit?”

  I try swallowing to get enough room to speak.

  “It’s not what you think Admiral . . .” I choke out.
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  The very sound of my voice infuriates him even more. He lets me know this by tightening his grip. Struggling, I fight for breath, my gulps of air getting shallower and shallower. My body pulls against the rope binding my arms behind me. Through all of this, I hear the creak of the door before it slams shut behind us.

  The Admiral’s eyes flit away from mine, taking in the new sight. He smiles and grabs my jaw, jerking my head towards the door. Through the blurriness of my suffocation, I see Cass struggling against her guards. She’s bloodied, but not subdued. In contrast to me, it looks like she’s been fighting the entire way up to the Bridge. Upon closer inspection, I see her captors are almost as bruised as she is. A small fire lights in my chest. I chose the right one.

  The Admiral seems to regain some of his composure in the presence of a lady.

  Once more the gallant general, he sweeps his arms open. “Nurse Dawson, what a pleasure it is to see you,” he says.

  Cass doesn’t seem to hear the Admiral as she continues searching for different methods to get free of her bonds. Her captors set her down on the rich carpet in the middle of the congregation of chairs. As her knees hit, they crank her shoulders down so she’ll kneel facing me. A pulse of stress beats up and down my arm.

  What are our options?

  The sturdier woman wrenching Cass’s left arm clearly enjoys her opportunity to retaliate. She looks up at the Admiral with a grin. “Sir, are you sure we can’t just beat her senseless?”

  Admiral Khan walks between us. “No, I’m quite sure that I need her conscious for this,” he replies.

  He turns on his foot. “You know, it’s quite unfortunate, really. You were both shining examples of what this fleet could be. Courageous, willing, capable. Everything I could want in a soldier.” He stops, pondering for a moment. “But therein lies the issue. You both possessed a little too much ambition. You forget the reason either of you are employed . . . or even really alive at all, is because I deemed it so.”

  He wraps his fingers around the maple handle one of his knives, dragging it along his desk. “You see, the reason we still need Miss Dawson sentient, is because I require leverage to make Sergeant Basmon give me what I need,” he says, twisting the dagger in his hand. “I need her able to make every facial expression fitting for the situations I present.” His gray eyes flick up to mine. “I’m sure you will find it quite effective.”