The Husband’s pale blue eyes brim as they look up at me. “When Olan came back after we had broken off from the battle . . . he found this hole. Just like we did. We had been hiding in the mess hall.”
His face swims. I can’t focus on it anymore.
He holds his voice steady. “We looked everywhere for her. The only remnant we found was up by one of the welders. A little piece of her red dress. That’s all we have.”
He takes something from his pocket, pressing it into my hand.
A burnt piece of fabric unfolds in my palm.
My body lands against the wall, coming to rest in the angle that meets the floor. Sobs wrack my body. It’s the first time I’ve cried about anything since I can remember. All the tension that’s been building up is released; the only thing I can think about is how to do it quietly so I don’t wake up the neighbor’s wife.
Her giggles, her contagious little smile, her genuine kindness; none of it was enough to stop that shell. No power moved to stop it from crashing into the side of the ship. Every time I think I’ve gotten a hold of myself, my anguish is renewed with unshed tears. I fucking hate this world. The cruelty always seemed as though it was no match in the face of that little girl, but now it’s taken her too.
My own mortality, the thing always scratching the back of my mind, now looms in front of me. I have no way to defend against it. Death was something that happens to other people. I was supposed to be immune, but it’s a blind, cold creature always lurking in the shadows, waiting for those who least expect it.
I can feel it now, watching me with its dark, hollowed-out eyes.
A warm blanket interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
The frail hands of the Wife slowly press the blanket over my shoulders. I must have awakened her. Either that, or she knew the departure of her Husband signaled that all was not well. No matter the reason; my heart jumps to my throat. I’m so glad she’s here. I don’t even know her name.
Her eyes hide underneath the shadow of her inconsistently dyed hair. Her husband turns his head turns to the side, placing a hand over his mouth. His eyes hide under the shadows as well.
The older woman kneels down, running her thumb over my cheek to brush the tears away.
“There, there child. Let’s go find Olan, shall we?” she soothes.
That’s what I am right now: a child. Having one of my pillars of strength knocked out from under me has caused me to regress twenty years. I nod slowly, letting her guide me away from the hole.
I smell it: I smell the burnt flesh. My sister’s blood splashed across the wall. I couldn’t help you Pela. My mother on the ground. I couldn’t help you either Mom. The flames creep in to feast.
I look down at my scarred hands. The winding lines sear themselves back into my fingers. Panicking, I wrestle to wipe them away, wipe them off my hands. As though it were that easy.
The Wife pulls me closer. “Focus on me, child.” She grabs one of my hands, slowly guiding it away from the other. “Focus on me.”
Something about her soft, wrinkled hands breaks through. They’re something I never had in my childhood. The Wife is consistent. The Wife is a selfless person; I didn’t know many of those growing up.
As I step out into the gale that separates us from the infirmary, recovering enough common sense for my own protective instincts to function. The driving wind and rain lash out in sheets over the Outer Rim. I use what little bulk I have to shield us both. It’s not much, but she seems to appreciate the gesture.
Reality sets in as we approach the infirmary door, and I break down again. How can I look Olan in the eye? How do I even say anything to him when he’s just lost his child? The tears and rain drops mix. My sister’s face won’t stop melding with Aoife’s. They would have been about the same age. Pinching the top of my nose, I focus on that pressure to keep the image away, but the more I fight it, the more I see the remains of Aoife lying right next to my mother. The flames creep in.
No.
I won’t let myself get distracted. She’s not my kid. Olan’s the one who’s lost everything. I need to make sure that I can be there for him. I can’t be caught up in my own emotional minefield. I wipe away the tears I can, hoping the rain camouflages the ones I’ve missed.
As expected after every battle, the infirmary’s bursting at the seams. Nurses flit from bed to bed like dissatisfied humming birds. Patients do the same, but at a much slower pace. The smell claws into my throat, gagging me; it is a terrible mixture of bodily fluids, stale odors, and human refuse.
The Wife accompanies me to the entrance before bidding farewell. Her job here is done, but mine has just begun. I swim through the mass of people. Some reach out to me, desperate for something to eat or drink. I grasp their hands as I walk by, but that’s all that I do. Someone will be there to help them soon; hopefully. I’m on a mission.
It doesn’t take me too long to find him through the haze. An enterprising nurse took the liberty of pushing two cots together to accommodate Olan’s giant frame. He lies there, face up, his mountain of a stomach slowly rising and falling. The clamor surrounding him seems to have no effect.
Closing the distance, I notice his arms and legs are bound to the beds. Concern ripples its way through my stomach. Reaching Olan’s bedside, I stare quietly into his face. It’s twisted, tortured by dreams. Still, at this point it’s probably better than being conscious.
“He’s been sedated.”
The nurse behind me catches me off guard.
From beneath his bulk, I hook a finger up on his binding. “It certainly appears that way. Why?”
Fiona steps up next to me. “He’s a danger to himself. Even sleeping.”
I pull up one of the covers that’s been haphazardly thrown over his chest. “What happened?” I ask.
Fiona straightens her back, clutching her clipboard to her chest. “Apparently the maintenance crew tackled him in the Living Quarters. He tried to jump through one of the holes blasted in the ship’s hull. In the tussle, he tried taking a welding torch to his throat. The workers were able to wrestle it back before he could finish the job. With tendencies like that, it’s best he not have access to objects that could kill him, or others.”
The putrid wound on his neck gapes up at me. Olan, what have you done?
“You know these bindings won’t hold him,” I say quietly.
Fiona pauses for a moment before answering. “Under different circumstances, I would have agreed with you. However, I was on the infirmary floor when they brought him in. This man has no more fight left in him. That, and we’ve pumped him with enough tranquilizers to sedate a rhino.”
The sincere urge to hit this woman bubbles into my chest.
I clench my firsts, fighting to keep a polite veneer. “Thank you, you’ve done quite enough.”
Sensing my frustration, Fiona keeps her silence, disappearing before I can look over to confirm she’s gone. Not knowing what else to do, I slide down next to Olan’s bed post.
I have no home.
Everything I’ve ever owned is gone. Exhaustion saps my ability to problem-solve. Right now, there’s no better solution than just to surrender to the overwhelming powers that be. That’s exactly what I do, resting the back of my head against the bed post before letting the darkness surge in.
The sensation of saliva dripping from my mouth is the first indication that I’m awake. Several hours have passed, evidenced by the first rays of sunlight forcing their way into the infirmary. It has a rejuvenating effect on most of the patients, a reassurance that they’ve made it through another night. I’ve slipped off of the bedpost and fallen onto my side. My elbow’s sore and my right arm tingles with paralysis. Slowly, I try massaging out the pins and needles that have taken up residence there. Kneeling, I twist around to peer at Olan.
His hollow stare startles me. Where has my friend gone?
“Good morning Olan,” My soft voice reverberates off the infirmary walls.
He says nothing. I can’t te
ll if he’s still drugged, or if his heart’s so broken that he just can’t put forth the effort to talk right now. Looking up over the side of the bed, I see most people are still asleep. Some nurses mill about taking care of patients, but I haven’t moved enough to draw their attention.
I look back into my friend’s blank eyes. A pair of surgical scissors lays on the next cot over, just beyond Olan’s line of vision. Slowly and silently, I pull them out of their pouch and begin snipping my way through the bond on his right arm. This is no place for a grieving father. I quietly work from below the bed, cutting through each band.
Another patient’s wheelchair sits next to her bed. The golden bow on the back of it designates it as property of the infirmary. I’ll feel less guilty since it’s not her personal chair. Sliding out from under the bed, I noiselessly pop open the chair.
Seeing my plan, Olan edges himself towards the side of the bed. With his help, I slowly get him into the chair. With the new weight, the back of it begins flipping towards the floor. I throw my body under it to stop the momentum, straining against the sheer mass. I feel Olan struggling as well.
Rolling his weight forward, Olan wins his battle. The chair lands on the tiles a little too loudly, but we’re still upright. After collecting his personal affects, I wheel Olan towards the door.
I tense as we approach the nurses. They must know something is out of place.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to do anything to draw attention to myself. I keep a languid but consistent stride towards the door.
I freeze.
Fiona’s exhausted brown eyes peek out from the huddle of nurses.
Starting again, I keep moving towards the door. Maybe we can make it out before she can say anything.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods silently. Thank you Fiona.
As the chair’s wheels clank over the door frame, we escape from the ward. Once we make it away from the nurses and bindings, I realize I have no idea what to do with a drugged, suicidal, 300-pound man.
Possible options rotate through my mind. We don’t have a home. We could go to the Veranda. Aoife’s favorite playground? No, that’s not a good idea. We could find Cass. To have her march us right back to the Infirmary? Also not a good plan right now. The safest move I can think of is the Galley. Olan loves food, and they knocked him out for a very long time.
Breakfast it is.
That’s how we spend the rest of the week. We find an abandoned double bunk in the forward barracks and make a small camp there. The rest of the mercenaries and career marines mostly ignore us, save the occasional offer to trade. They’ve seen odder scenarios come through their door. As long as it looks like I can hold a rifle and don’t cause trouble, they could care less about our story.
Throughout all of this, Olan doesn’t utter a word, even though I know the drugs must have worn off by now. He only takes in nutrition when he absolutely has to. Even then, I can see a struggle in his eyes as he makes the conscious decision to continue living. If he really wanted to off himself, he could’ve taken hold of the railing and thrown himself over the side of the ship. With his size and determination, none of us would have been able to stop him. Instead, he just sits silently.
With Cass’s roommate killed in combat, and me with no place to stay, we make the decision to move in with one another. The cot wasn’t quite made for two, but I try to make it work by wedging myself against the wall as much as possible. During the time that I’m not with him, Olan stays in the barracks. As a member of the boarding party, he has friends there who also can’t afford separate housing. They help me watch over him as we decide what to do. The other marines don’t object. Neither does he. He just stares into some place that none of us can see, a world where his family is still alive. A place where he has more purpose in life than the destruction of others.
That’s where he’s staring now, as we sit in the middle of the Veranda. I’ve run out of places to take him to try eliciting an emotional response. Any response. Here in the middle of the swirling tiles, I thought it might stimulate him, even though the promenade isn’t what it once was. There are a lot more holes than usual. Only a few amateur artisans tinker with what few materials they can contribute to the shifting mosaic. Most of them must have been left behind in Shipwreck. Maybe they’re still on board, but are unable to bring themselves to pick up a hammer and chisel in the aftermath of the attack. I could understand that.
“You just gonna carry that sad sack of shit around with you until he dies?” The Voice says.
“I swear to God, you need to shut the fuck up,” I growl to the wind.
“Did they get the message?” Stenia asks, appearing from behind a sculpture.
I start, twisting around to face her.
“How many are there?” she asks, leaning against the steel obelisk.
“What?” I ask.
“How many voices?” she clarifies.
I swallow. I suppose it’s always been there, but talking about it makes it real. “Just one. . . I think.”
“How long?” she asks.
I focus on the deck, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”
Stenia draws herself up on the side of obelisk, pressing her back flat. “Having it there doesn’t make you any less strong Sage. You don’t have to hide it. You’re under the kind of stress that would kill most people.” Her violet eyes probe. “Everyone breaks. It’s just a matter of how you put yourself back together.”
I clench my jaw, nodding. “All the same, I’d still appreciate it if you’d keep it between us. I don’t need the crew thinking they’re following a mad man more than they already do,” I say.
“Has my trust ever been an issue?” she asks.
“No,” I say, grasping Olan’s chair as the Artemis begins descending. “No, it hasn’t.”
Stenia’s faces stiffens, glancing down the causeway.
Following her eyes, I find Raltz and Sabine moving down the Rim towards us.
“Something is wrong about that one,” Stenia states.
“Why?” I ask.
“The way she moves; she’s carrying more secrets than shards in her arm,” Stenia says, pushing herself away from the sculpture.
“She’s also provided us more secrets about the Ark than we can repay. Are you worried the ones she hasn’t shared could hurt us?” I ask.
“I’m not certain yet,” Stenia replies, “but I will know soon.”
I nod. “In the meantime, I need you to keep your suspicions between you and me as well. One rumor about her, valid or not, could blow this whole house of cards over.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the two approaching figures.
More people emerge from the bulkheads, blocking Sabine and Raltz from view as they approach. The ocean sweeps out underneath the Artemis as it continues losing altitude.
“Are we landing?” Sabine asks, coming to our side.
“No,” I say.
Sabine glances to the men and women around us. They carry objects of all sizes. Some have boxes, others hold one single thing: a boot without laces, an old hat. They continue flowing from the bulkheads.
“What are we doing then?” she asks.
I glance down at Olan. “Saying goodbye.”
A few crew members arrive with crude wooden planks. They set several of them up both port and starboard of the veranda, equipping either side of them with one marine each. The crowd surges closer to the railing as the marines tie the boards to the banisters. An Artemis flag is tied down over the top of each, covering the wood in black and gold.
Nurses appear through the crowd, pushing three gurneys. The people make way as two gurneys reach the port side, the third turning toward the starboard rigging. All three carry bodies: two men and a woman, each of whom died this morning as a result of their wounds.
Perfect timing, I guess.
The two marines on either side step forward, helping the nurses remove the corpse from the stretcher a
nd lie it on the wood. The marine on the right pulls the black flag over the man’s face as the nurse whispers into his ear.
The marine nods before returning to his post. He looks over the crowd as he takes hold of the wooden slat. “For Mihkail Zatsayev!” he shouts.
Nodding, he turns to the second marine and upends the board. The body slides underneath the flag; the colored material chasing after the corpse as it slides. The body disappears over the railing into the surging ocean below.
The marine gestures to a woman in front of us. She steps up, placing a wrapped sack on the board before saying something to the first marine. The marine nods before once again turning up the wooden slat..
“For Adrianna Clemout,” he says.
The board upends, sending the sack and its contents into the depths.
“For Unknown,” the officer manning the second slat says.
The board turns, sliding the body of the female into the ocean. Perhaps she was unconscious when she was brought to the infirmary. Either way, no one was able to identify her. I don’t want to die alone.
Sabine’s face darkens as she glances down at Olan. “Sage. Where is Aoife?”
My throat tightens as I reach into my pocket. The material crackles against my hand as I pull out the charred piece of red cloth, showing it to Sabine.
She puts a hand over her mouth. Raltz’s eyes study it without response.
“This is your father’s work,” I say. “This is all that’s left. There’s nothing else.”
Tears leak from either side of Sabine’s eyes. “No,” she whispers.
Raltz moves to grab Sabine’s shoulder. “My lady, you shouldn’t have to see this.”
She slaps his hand away. “No!”, she growls. “No. This is the only thing I should see right now. I need to know what he’s doing.” She wipes her face. “What it’s causing,” she chokes.
My own eyesight blurs as I turn back to the crowd. There’s nothing for us to offer the sea as a memorial to her; everything’s gone.
I glance down at my clenched hand.
Well . . . maybe not everything.
With Eyes Turned Skyward Page 21